TYRANNICAL Love, that goads me and gives me no rest,

As proud as thine arrogant self is this heart in my breast,

It will keep in its pain

Its faithfulness, though it be trampled beneath thy disdain.

This mirror, my heart, is broken against my desire;

O Heaven, give me not of your pity, nay, rather admire

My soul that is proud;

My head, though I beat it in sorrow, has never been bowed.

Think not that with joy and with ease I pursue my desire;

With heart that is weary, with footsteps that lag and that tire,

I follow my quest,

To attain through the difficult way to the kingdom of rest.

Yet, Makhfi, look up from thy desolate region of night,

And see how the army of sorrow has taken to flight;

Dawn comes, and despair

Has vanished before the miraculous arrows of prayer.