LET me begin* in the name of that King whose throne is the heart of man; He is Lord of all, and kings are His servants. He is the secret counsellor of the heart; He has His home in every eye. By His power every eye sees; but none can see Him. Hidden, and evident like the scent in the rose, secret and manifest like drunkenness in the wine cup; beauty is the reflection of His face, love is a sign from His glory. His One can never be Two; there is neither parting nor meeting. This world, which is the revelation of His wisdom, is but one of many revelations of His majesty. From Him things are made manifest; from them He is not manifest. For they are not, and He is; oh you who dare to make the visible a proof of the invisible, you have fallen into the sin of idolatry; beware, beware! For without His help we cannot see Him, and the road of speech is thinner than a hair. Narrow is the garden of reason, the foot of wisdom lame.

No, by that gate I will not enter, not by thought, nor by reason; I will enter by the gate we made ourselves;* I will speak of you and me; veiled, we will enter behind the veil.

Oh you who are gone from me even as my peace is gone; oh hapless wanderer in distant lands; have you so forgotten the path of meeting? Will you hand me over bound to sorrow? Oh, my tyrant, source of my pleasure and pain! When you were with me all was delight; when you left me, you left me with pain as my companion. Ah, memory ever present day and night, ah pain, familiar friend of my heart! If you would have news of me, ask Fire and Wind; for the fire is hot with my love, and the wind is burdened with my sighs. When the sun of your face was in my eyes my night was brighter than day; and now you are gone, my day is as a night without stars. And as I write of my sorrow see how the tears fall and wash the words away. Ah, dear enemy of my heart, the day you left my side my heart went with you; you know not what I am now; how long must I suffer so this horror of separation? A woman is not man enough to bear it.* You left me and took my heart with you. Would I knew where it has gone. You took my heart, and did you not remember me and my longing? You have made your home in India; were you not ashamed when you saw that lock of hair? Without you I have neither joy nor faith; I dwell in sorrow of soul; but you, without me, you take delight in a strange land, you keep company with the idolaters of India.* My heart searches for you day and night; I sit in the corner of the house and pray. You have forgotten your glorious Mecca, you have gone after the strange gods of strange lands. I, with sleepless eyes, turn to the prayer-niche, and with my soul embrace your soul; you, every moment, have some new worship, every day the priest of a new idol. I, without you, turn my face to the wall; you, without me, turn your face to new faces. Oh, new flower of the garden of unfaith­fulness, oh drunken with the wine of untruth, oh pledge of love unredeemed, oh promise fleeting as the wind! Your heart is hard as stone, your word unstable as water; oh mirror and example of promise-breakers! For on your word I built, and built on shifting sand. Are promise and word so soon forgotten? Was ever faithlessness like years? Great was your kindness, but it lasted but one hour and was gone; oh, for the kindness which knows no change, a kindness even as mine. Were you so bent on forgetfulness, so busy with untruth, that you could not write me one letter? Could you not make me glad with news of you, could not your pen write my name? No, there was no place for my name in your heart; for I am friendship, I am truth. Oh, some day, let your dear pen write my name, oh forgetful one; tell me the old story of your love, yes, though the story be but lip-worship, tell me once more. If you cannot bring water to my lips, at least show my eyes the mirage. Since your faith was in doubt, I am the reproach of a thousand tongues; since for loss of you my sorrow was plain, I am become the fable of the market-place. Now that I have lost you, now that I have lost your faith, now that your word is broken, I see that my tongue has erred, my heart has been misled, and that my treasure is but dross. Yet am I so foolish and mad that I would purchase even that mirage with my life; for, save love of you, my heart can ply no trade, and, save for your wine, my cup is empty. Your love will be buried in the earth with me, and will be mingled with the dust that was my heart. For you, parting was easy; for me, I cannot even bear the thought of it. When you were with me, your love was the pride of my heart; now that you are gone and unfaithful, what curse can I invoke on you? Your sins have been the substance of my letters, and my curse must be its end.” And at the letter's end she wrote this verse of Hatafi: “Oh, cursed one, that promise which once I gave thee, that promise I will keep as long as I live.”

[Above is written in Valeh's handwriting: “The queen of idols calls me cursed, the life of the world calls me cursed; I have worshipped no god but her alone; therefore, rightly like Satan, am I called cursed.”*

This poem is sealed with a seal which he has made for himself. “Her servant, the cursed one. A.H. 1160.”*]

She bound the letter with a lock of her hair, she wrote the address with her own blood, and she set on it the seal engraved with the token of her love* ; and then she gave it to the messenger and bade him speed like the wind.