
Ghazal 281 — Ġālib işüm bitdi yetişdi ḳılıcuñ çün başa
In this ghazal Münîrî joins "taşa" (to stone, to overflow) and "yaşa" (to tears, live) in punning rhymes, and ends with the prayer "may you live a thousand years" said to the bereaved.

In this ghazal Münîrî joins "taşa" (to stone, to overflow) and "yaşa" (to tears, live) in punning rhymes, and ends with the prayer "may you live a thousand years" said to the bereaved.

Prince Bayezid's ghazal with the refrain "but": a lover who knows no wealth, provision, gift or wish but the beloved, and a nightingale whose place is nowhere but the rose garden.

In this ghazal Münîrî rhymes "gül-nār" (pomegranate blossom) with "gül nārı" (the rose's fire), begs the beloved not to defer the promised death, and tells of a soul come to the lip.

Prince Bayezid's nine-couplet ghazal with the refrain "like": a beloved with Alexander and Darius among her slaves, and the pomp of kingship as an empty quarrel beside union.

Drawing on the custom of tipping for first fruit, Münîrî gives his life to the beloved's pomegranate-blossom lip, and sees the cheek as a fire blazing in the night of the curl.

Prince Bayezid's ghazal with the refrain "erenleri": the prince rejected by the Ottomans is welcomed by the erens of Persia, and the last couplet turns the hope of pardon to Rum.

Münîrî likens the beloved to a houri dwelling in his veins, and tells of a heart dripping water to a dying arrowhead and of branded tulips nourished by Ferhad's tears.

Prince Bayezid's last Turkish ghazal, thought to have been written in captivity in Iran: the cage of the body, the bell of the caravan of death and a final plea to a generous shah.

Münîrî likens the beloved's hard heart to granite, scatters his heart in a hundred pieces among her locks, and likens the blood in his breast to henna smeared on a wound.

Münîrî builds a pun on "cânâneye" and "cânâ neye", likens the heart to a sown field, and the beloved's mole to one seeking treasure in the ruined heart.

Münîrî calls it a pity to look on a world that vanishes in the twinkling of an eye, likens tears to a flood, and finds true kingship in the rapture of love.

Münîrî fears the smoke of his sighs will blacken the mirror of the sun, likens his tears to the army of a world-conqueror, and turns to the prayer at dawn.

In this ghazal with the refrain "ne fâyide" Münîrî lists vain efforts: birth in Mecca avails nothing to one gone astray, nor a shut door against the thief within.

Münîrî likens his eyes to the two windows of the house of the heart, willow leaves to daggers, and his breast to a censer in which the aloeswood of the heart burns.

Münîrî turns his bloody tears into roses and tulips, says fortune is not won by toil, and tells how his soul came to his lip as he waited for the beloved's lip.

Münîrî lays the blame on the pupil of the eye, likens the chin dimple to a well with a shadow at its bottom, and counts gazing at beauty a sin written in pre-eternity.

Münîrî breaks once more a repentance broken in a hundred places, traces his drunkenness to the cup of Elest, and likens the mole to a child making bouquets of roses.

Münîrî plays on the words for wind, running and year, says the glance kills while the lip revives, and likens the heart to a moth round the candle of the gathering.

In this ghazal, preserved only in the Vienna manuscript, Münîrî likens the beloved's mouth to the star Suha fallen on the moon and praises an unnamed young prince.

Münîrî likens the beloved's beauty to a sun that would lift the curtain of both worlds, the dust of her footprint to collyrium, and his tears to countless stars.

Münîrî likens the beloved's mole to the grain that led Adam astray, his stitched wounds to a patched dervish cloak, and the sweat on her face to dew kept upon the sun.

Münîrî counts his tears both beggars and orphans in the beloved's quarter and recalls the command of Sura al-Duha not to oppress the orphan nor rebuff the one who asks.

Münîrî puns on murğ-zâr and murğ-ı zâr, likens the lock to the chamberlain of beauty's realm, and surrounds the martyred lover's grave with sword-leaved irises.

Münîrî tells of the miracle of the cypress stature that shows the Resurrection, counts the candle's burning a penalty, and plants the smoke of his heart as a banner.

Münîrî sets the rose against the beloved's cheek, plays on "hezâr" as both a thousand and the nightingale, and likens his yellowed face to a gold tablet on which tears write.

Münîrî depicts a heart chained by the knot of a curl, a lover who refuses the water of immortality, and a love written on his forehead before the Tablet and the Pen.

Münîrî prefers a forelock that outdoes ambergris to the musk of Khotan, calls the curl a firm rope, makes cypress and elm slaves to the beloved, and longs to see the candle.

Münîrî builds a full pun on "gül zârı" and "gül-zâr", teases the ascetic with the tavern's secret, and urges staking one's soul for a waist as thin as a hair.

Münîrî likens his yellowed face to amber that draws straw and the beloved's tiny mouth to a mote seen in sunlight, building every rhyme on abstract nouns ending in "-iyyet".

Using Turkish rhymes such as kötek, yürek, bezek, etek and bebek, Münîrî speaks of the rival's beating, the cold breath of death and the beloved's unadorned beauty.

Münîrî plays on Muhammed and Muhammedî, and on Muhammedî and Ahmedî, and sets the one bound to the curl against the one who strips himself of worldly ties.

Münîrî likens the rings of the curl to armour worn against the arrow of the glance, works the girih and zırıh rhyme, and ties the down on the cheek to Khidr's greening breath.

Münîrî likens the face veiled by the curl to the moon eclipsed by day and the bound joints of the reed flute to bandaged fractures, using short rhymes close to popular speech.

Münîrî compares his own art of the ghazal with Mevlânâ's Mesnevi, likens the beloved's words to the Pahlavi tongue, and links the crescent eyebrow to the new moon.

Münîrî turns the sun to dust before the beloved's beauty, makes the moon both buyer and planet through "müşteri", and has the curl's royal plume shade the gardens of paradise.

In this seven-couplet ghazal Münîrî makes the cypress-stature's shadow a lover through "üftâde", likens the beloved to a cap-tilted bandit Turk and calls him to the hut of sorrows.
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