WHEN thou unveil’st thy shining countenance,
Burnt are my lashes by thy lightning glance,
And all the night I passionately weep
While o’er my heart tempests of longing sweep;
And if I see it not, desiring it,
My heart is darkened like a lamp unlit.
I have no hope, no comfort, anywhere,
Caught by the fluttering tresses of thy hair.
No flower can open in my garden bed
Until my heart’s blood dyes its petals red.
Sing softly of thy love, or silent be,
O Makhfi, lest the Hunter secretly
Shall come and hear thy voice, and capture thee.