So cold’s the finest art without a flaming heart.
The rose in bloom is pale without a nightingale.
The poet extols your image in disguise,
You trust the mirror – your reflection lies.
There are so many pretty girls under the moon,
Who would’ve heard of Leila if not for her Mejnun.
Such beauty ought to be in poetry engraved
Lucky is the poet by your charm enslaved.
1908
В оригинале на татарском: Булмаса
В переводе на русский язык: Если не (Перевод В.Думаевой-Валиевой)