HASTEN, O Saki, bring
The wine that it may grant its quickening
To my dead heart, and to the withered flowers
Come like the showers
That give the resurrection of the spring.
What weary days
Are these, that never in the perfumed ways
The bulbul sings among the cypress trees;
Only the morning breeze
Finds entrance there, and with the roses plays.
Masiha, thou canst heal,
Thou wise Physician, hear our heart’s appeal!
Give us the bitter draught to cure our grief,
And grant relief;
Blame not the shrinking from thy cup we feel.
Glimmer not, pearly dawn,
Let not the veil of night be yet withdrawn;
I long to send, with arrows of my sighs,
Unto the skies
My eager prayers before the night be gone.
I craved release
From griefs that burn and pains that never cease,
But all my cries to Heaven were empty breath;
Not even Death
Coming at last, could give my spirit peace.
If, on the Judgment Day,
Grieving for my transgressions, I shall pray
For mercy for the evil I have done,
O Self-Existent One,
Grant that my tears shall wash the sin away.
O Makhfi, for thy fate
Be not thou fearful nor disconsolate;
Higher, upon the Day of Reckoning,
Faquir than king,
There shall be then none lowly and none great.