DOWN in the dust and sunken in disgrace
My honour lies for all the world to see,
But why should I bear shame upon my face?
What is the honour of the world to me?
Although the times on my unhappy head
Have heaped the burdens I can hardly bear,
I have not wept; I smile in pride instead;
Upon my brow are graved no lines of care.
For many years hath sorrow dwelt with me,
Yet I repine not, and so fiercely wage
My war against despair, it turns to flee—
I am the Rustum of this later age.
Though callous Fate upon me vengeance wreak,
O breezes blowing from the heavens above
Bring unto me what I, like Yaqub, seek—
The perfume of the garments of my Love.