AWAKE, arise, my soul, for it is spring;
Let the narcissus, with its scent divine,
Cast its bewitchment, let the Saki bring
His idol, for indeed he worships wine.
To the forbidden path turn not aside,
And, tyrannous Belovèd, let thine eye
Look on thy victims trampled in thy pride,
Who for a glance from thee would gladly die.
Some pay their worship at the Kaaba shrine,
Some pray within the Temple courts apart,
But, Makhfi, think what secret joy is thine,
To bear thine idol ever in thy heart.