THE love of Thee the bulbul sings,
The moth that burns its silken wings
Thy love has drawn into the fire,
And, see, the wine of Thy desire—
On every goblet’s lip it clings.
No ease, no respite anywhere
Is now for me, for in Thy snare
Blindly or willingly I fall,
No liberty have I at all,
Bound by the fetters of Thy hair.
So many tears mine eyes have shed,
Such streams of blood my heart has bled,
That now mine eyes can weep no more,
Nor can the failing fountains pour,
For dry the source from which they fed.
Thou, Makhfi, in the burning fire
Of love and unassuaged desire
Tossing in wild remorse, shalt dwell;
Love’s secrets weakly didst thou tell,
So thou shalt pay with penance dire.