| 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. |