If you know the Qadr (worth)

 

 بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Mullah Jami says:

ای خواجه چه جویی ز شب قدر نشانی
هر شب شب قدر است اگر قدر بدانی

O sir—why do you look for a sign of the Night of Power?
Every night is the Night of Power, if you know what “worth” is.

Jāmī opens with a wordplay on “qadr”: it means both the “Night of Qadr” (Laylat al-Qadr) and value / worth / measure. So he’s saying: Stop chasing the calendar only. If you truly recognize the spiritual value of a night—if you live with wakeful reverence—then any night can become “Qadr” for you.

My own reading: this is a very Sufi move. He’s shifting the question from “Which night is it?” to “Do you have the sight to recognize it?”

روشن به تو گویم که شب قدر کدام است
گر زانکه تو ادراک شب قدر توانی

I will tell you plainly which night is the Night of Power—
if you are capable of perceiving the Night of Power.

This couplet is a gentle challenge. He’s saying: I can name it for you, but naming is not the point. The real condition is idrāk—inner apprehension, spiritual perception. If you can’t “catch” its meaning inwardly, then even the correct date won’t help much.

آنست شب قدر که بر جان محمد
قرآن عظیم آمده و سبع مثانی

That is the Night of Power: when upon Muḥammad’s soul
came down the Mighty Qur’an and the Seven Oft-Repeated.
 

Now he gives the first “definition” in the orthodox-historical sense: Laylat al-Qadr is the night of Revelation—the descent of the Qur’an upon the Prophet’s inner being (“jān-e Muḥammad,” his soul/life-spirit).

“Sabʿ-e Mathānī” (“the Seven Oft-Repeated”) is a Qur’anic phrase commonly understood as Sūrat al-Fātiḥa, the seven-verse opening that is repeated in prayer. Jāmī pairs the عظیم Qur’an with its concentrated essence, so to speak.

آنست شب قدر که از نور جمالش
وارست کلیم از شب تاریک و شبانی

That is the Night of Power: when, by the light of His Beauty,
the Kalīm was freed—from the dark night and from shepherding.
 

“Kalīm” is Moses (Mūsā), called Kalīmullāh (“the one who spoke with God”). Jāmī alludes to Moses’ encounter with divine light (the burning bush / Sinai moment), when Moses is summoned out of obscurity into prophetic mission.

There’s also a fine poetic trick: he stacks “night” language:

• شبِ تاریک = dark night

• شبانی = shepherding (Moses’ earlier life)

So the line suggests: By divine beauty’s light, Moses is released from both literal darkness and the “night” of an ordinary vocation. It’s not belittling shepherding; it’s saying revelation re-assigns a person. 

آنست شب قدر که بر طلعت ماهی
تا مطلع فجرش به تماشا گذرانی

That is the Night of Power: when before the face of a moon-like one
you pass the night in gazing—until the rising-place of dawn. 
 

Here Jāmī makes the classic Sufi turn: the Night of Power is not only a past historical night—it is also an experienced night.

The beloved is “māhī” (a moon): moon-faced, radiant. To spend the whole night in tamāshā (contemplative beholding) is not mere romance; it’s a symbol for mushāhada—witnessing, presence, absorbed attention. Dawn (“ مطلع فجر”) becomes the boundary of an all-night vigil of vision.

ماهی که بود غایت حاجات و مقاصد
ماهی که بود قبله آمال و امانی

A moon who is the ultimate end of needs and aims—
a moon who is the qibla of hopes and wishes.
 

This couplet tells you what kind of “moon” he means: not just physical beauty, but the final object of longing.

• “Ghāyat” = ultimate end/limit: the beloved is the final purpose behind all seeking.

• “Qibla” = direction of prayer: your inner orientation turns toward this beloved the way prayer turns toward the Kaʿba.

Sufi reading (and I think it’s strongly invited here): the “moon” is the Divine Beloved—or at least the beloved as a mirror of divine beauty. Your whole life becomes directionally aligned.

جامی چو به این شب برسی از پی عمری
زنهار سلام من بیدل برسانی

Jāmī—when after a lifetime you finally arrive at such a night, 

take heed: deliver my greeting to the heartless beloved.
 

This is the signature couplet (he names himself). “Zinhār” is an urgent caution: watch out / don’t fail / for God’s sake.

The one ambiguity is “bī-del”:

• It can mean “heartless” (a beloved who shows no mercy—very common in ghazal language).

• It can also mean “heart-bereft / heart-lost” (the lover in a state of ravishment).

So another plausible shading is: “Convey my greeting to the heart-bereft one.” Either way, the emotional truth is the same: after a lifetime of seeking, when you reach a true Night of Power—don’t miss the essential act of love and connection.

My opinion on the best fit here: in a ghazal atmosphere, “bī-del” most naturally points to the beloved as “heartless” (cruelly indifferent), because sending “salām” to the beloved is a familiar closing gesture—half devotion, half complaint.