THE wine of my delight has lost its taste;

The earth of my existence turns a waste,

No wholesome grass grows there, but only weed;

My flaming spring of life has passed indeed.

I searched for joy, but never found the end;

My empty hands, outstretched, can greet no friend;

And if God’s pardon never come to me,

Then less than withered grass my prayers must be.

But, Makhfi, look with a discerning eye—

Deeper than thy despair thy bliss may lie;

Though on the path of love thy feet may tire,

New strength shall come to thee, and new desire.