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.