GREEN is my garden, watered by my tears,
And through my soul the perfume of the rose
Kindling my heart with its enchantment flows;
O Saki, bring the cup, for there appears
Gleaming within the garden through the night
A radiance fair our feasting to illume;
What is this glamour shining through the gloom?
My heart’s blood, glowing, yields the heavenly light.
O, I have drunk my cup of cherished grief,
And love the torment of my wounded heart;
As the scars heal I tear their lips apart,
And in my pain find rapturous relief.
Why should I then permit the winds of care
To ruffle thus my soul, as airs of spring
Through the Belovèd’s tresses wantoning?
For I have risen to fortune from despair.
O fear not, if within the house of prayer
The feeble camphor candle fails and dies;
From out the flaming furnace of my sighs
Will rise another light, more fierce, more fair.
The perfumed winds that with the dawn arise,
Have they not, Makhfi, caught thy soul away
And drenched it with delight, so all the day
There cling about thee airs of Paradise?