Ghazals I

Ghazals I

Naat: These are not tears that have come into my eyes

These are not tears that have come into my eyes;
these are the rivers of your mercy, surging.

God, the modesty! At the Resurrection, before God,
he is ashamed for the sins of us all.

I have seen the flowers of the garden of paradise too;
before your face they are all withered.

No one pleases me, no one comes into my sight;
in my heart, in my eyes, it is he alone who fills them.

They have been lit in my heart by the Prophet's face;
these specks are made to shine by that same sun.

Why should those who are beggars at your door be awed by kings?
O king of the fair, they have your royal backing.

Now that he has come, hearing of my rapture of longing,
at this moment, Ameer, I have come to my senses.

Ghazal: I long for one whom I cannot even wipe from my heart

I long for one whom I cannot even wipe from my heart;
I have set out to seek one whom I cannot even find.

Throwing dust on my blood, the killer said,
"This is not my henna, that I cannot even hide it."

The wretched restraint has come here and choked me,
so that if I would tell her my state, I cannot even tell it.

Let me just see her footprint, I will prostrate myself a hundred thousand times;
my head is not the Throne of God, that I cannot even bow it.

With her own pen she writes me down as faithless;
this is that writing of fate which I cannot even erase.

She sleeps so, with her head laid on my knee,
that I cannot even wake my sleeping fortune.

Ghazal: Ameer, the world has turned a hundred thousand ways

Ameer, the world has turned a hundred thousand ways,
yet that idol did not come to faithfulness, nor did I become faithless.

For my head of devotion it was only your threshold,
whether it became a tavern or a gaming-house.

When the grief of the world came to me, I shone;
the scar that fell on my liver became the lamp of the house.

There is no hope of his coming back from that lane:
like my life, my letter-bearer has set off.

A thousand thanks that my harvest was not wasted,
for it was shared grain by grain between lightning and flood.

Your feet came, sir, and my fortune opened:
my poor house became the answer to Solomon's palace.

Your beauty showed Venus her turn in the heavens;
your majesty brought on the age of Mars.

Someone went to the beloved's door, and I was trampled:
my head did not become a head; it became the threshold stone.

When desire was put out, it became the cause of my heart's light:
the lamp of the house was lit by a quenched spark.

When my Gracious Lord's mercy surged,
the tear that fell from my eye became a matchless pearl.

From envy, poison spread through the body of the sky
when any grain in my field grew green.

For months the poor nightingale gathered straws,
but she was not granted a nest for two days.

In the thought of her tress such darkness fell on the night of parting
that the mole on my wounded face became the lamp of the house.

Such a surge of weeping came at my being caught
that the grain grew green with the tears of the net's eye.

Do not ask how long her coquetry and my devotion go back;
this beauty and love are of now; that was long ago.

He bore blow upon blow and won honour:
Ameer, the heart broke and became a matchless pearl.

Ghazal: A fine Jesus you are! A fine way of caring for the sick

A fine Jesus you are! A fine way of caring for the sick:
I am dying, and you say I am well.

Let me ask you for yourself, so that I get everything;
better than a hundred requests is this one request.

Look at the restlessness of the nightingale and the moth:
neither parting from the fair is good, nor union.

When the thought of her came, longing cried out,
"O God, let it settle in the heart: this is a fine thought."

You show me your eyes; show me your youth, sir;
the goods that are good are tied up apart.

If lightning is good in the heat of its pace, Ameer,
that lightning of beauty is better in the heat of loveliness.

Ghazal: O restraint, see that she does not learn of my love

O restraint, see that she does not learn of my love;
let a thousand pains rise in my heart, but let my eyes not be wet.

After so long I have been granted an evening of union;
O God, let there be no morning for a few years at least.

There is a rose in her hand today;
I fear it may be someone's liver.

When even by searching I could not find the subtle meaning,
I was misled into thinking it might be her waist.

What hope of love? She is so faithless
that if we kept company a thousand years it would have no effect.

Let the night of union be as long as the night of parting;
O God, let the sun not rise, let there be no morning.

Ghazal: The night of meeting goes in talking

The night of meeting goes in talking;
what harm is there? Stay here for just this one night.

The specks of glitter are no less than glow-worms;
that sweat-soaked tress is a night of the rains.

If the ascetic were caught in that tress, I would ask him just this:
"Tell me, how did the night of the shrine of all wishes pass?" [TN: *qibla-e-hajat*, the place one turns to for one's needs.]

From evening till morning the cups of the wine of pleasure go round;
the night of the tavern-folk passes well.

When I asked for union on the Night of the Ascension, she made this excuse: [TN: *Shab-e-Miraj*, the night of the Prophet's ascent to heaven.]
"This is the night of the meeting of God and the Prophet."

We are travellers; this world is in truth an inn;
we stop in this place for just one night.

Come, go to sleep now; do not make up stories, sir;
it is the night of union, not a night for tales.

It is the Night of Power; pray for union, Ameer;
where is there a better night for prayer than this?

Naat: Your intercession has saved the black-faced

Your intercession has saved the black-faced,
for the list of their sins has been filed away.

If your beggars showed their rank,
the court of kings would fall in esteem.

At the least glance of your kindness the houris would carry off
the blackness of my sins, taking it for collyrium.

Happy the fortune of those who were buried in your lane!
The souls of those sheltered by forgiveness are in paradise.

The angels wipe away with the hem of the houris' tresses
the dust of glances that falls on that tomb. [TN: the Prophet's tomb at Medina.]

Your intercession will come and stop to buy
when the bundles of sins are opened at the Resurrection.

I am weak; how shall I reach you,
when there will be a crowd of petitioners at the Resurrection?

A glance of kindness is needed to cure this sickness:
the blackness of my sins is weighing me down.

God is Gracious, Muhammad the intercessor on the Day of Requital;
Ameer, what do my sins amount to?

Ghazal: What business have you now in my heart? The grief of the beloved is coming

What business have you now in my heart? The grief of the beloved is coming;
get out of this house, patience, for the master of the house is coming.

Your eyes in his sight, the madness of your tresses in his head,
your madman comes under the shadow of many fairies.

The bounty of God's mercy is on the drinkers these days:
wherever the cloud rises, it comes toward the tavern.

Who is there to quench the heart's burning in this forlornness,
but a weeping of longing that comes restlessly?

You coquet only with those who give their lives for you;
O death, how well you too know a beloved's airs!

I have seen your tresses so dishevelled
that the comb comes to sacrifice itself for every single hair.

The cup of my life spills over, alas for failure,
if ever, cupbearer, the measure comes up to my lips.

That idol is kind; everyone tells his own state;
O silent lips, do you too know some tale?

The shadow of your wall holds a new spell:
whatever madman comes, it turns into the guise of a fairy.

Ascetic, this is the glory I have found in living among these idols:
that the Kaaba comes to fetch me as far as the tavern door.

Non-being too, like being, is not free of doubleness:
someone comes sober, someone comes mad.

The *huma* falls on my burnt bones
as a moth comes writhing to the candle.

Here are the wiles of beauty, there the words of love:
you know spells, and I know the fairy's tale.

The greedy break their hearts with their own hands,
if, like the oyster, a single pearl comes to me. [TN: *dana*, "grain" and "pearl".]

The executioner wants to sprinkle salt on my wounds;
O manly courage, now the time of relish is coming.

The fear of force has seized you in union;
where are you? Come to your senses; no one has come or is coming.

O God, by whose candle of beauty is my house lit,
that every moth that comes today becomes a firefly?

I am such a lover of mole and down that I give it to the ants,
even the grain that comes to me on the third day.

Ameer, who else would come to the strangers' grave?
Yes, when a candle is lit, the moth comes.

Naat: I am your sacrifice a hundred thousand times over, O Messenger

I am your sacrifice a hundred thousand times over, O Messenger;
let the longings of my heart too be fulfilled, O Messenger.

Why should I not give my life for my heart, O Messenger?
For longings for you dwell in it, O Messenger.

Let mercy show such glory at the Resurrection, O Messenger,
that I stand ashamed and repentant, O Messenger.

I am slain by your pure face; when I rise from the grave,
let the Quran be flowing on my tongue, O Messenger.

At the moment when my breath begins to leave my body,
at that moment let my senses not be distracted, O Messenger.

I am surrounded by the army of sins; help!
I have no means of salvation, O Messenger.

At the Resurrection, with folded hands, I shall say to your presence,
"Today let my longings be fulfilled to the full, O Messenger."

Call me to Medina, so that this separation may end;
now I am much distressed in India, O Messenger.

The agony of death, the narrowness of the grave, the reckoning at the Resurrection:
let these hard stages not be hard, let them all be easy, O Messenger.

I want nothing else from the world
but to take my faith with me, O Messenger.

What dear, dear words the pure Companions spoke
from the time they believed in you, O Messenger!

When they made a request they would say, with joined hands,
"Mother and father, all are your sacrifice, O Messenger."

I too am a slave of that same door; give the order,
let your doorkeepers not stop me, O Messenger.

From the table of your bounty let me too be given blessings:
the master is the host, and I the guest, O Messenger.

Let blessing appear in my children;
let my house be peopled, not laid waste, O Messenger.

In the longing to reach your hem
I am tearing my collar, O Messenger.

Now the glory of the prophets is high above the world,
and higher than them all is your glory, O Messenger.

This is means enough for intercession:
I am a sinner, but I am repentant, O Messenger.

In that tear let me see the gate of paradise,
when my collar is torn in madness, O Messenger.

The eye is amazed at seeing your face,
but why is the heart amazed, like a mirror, O Messenger?

You are the remover of difficulties; Ameer is your slave;
now let his difficulties too be made easy, O Messenger.

Ghazal: Shoot arrow upon arrow; whom have you to fear

Shoot arrow upon arrow; whom have you to fear?
Whose breast is it, my life? Whose liver is it?

I have no fear of the scales of Resurrection, my friend;
if you are in my pan, whom have I to fear?

Someone comes from non-being, and someone goes;
God knows whose journey of the two is harder.

Every bird of the heart is hiding in the cage of the body;
whose falcon glance is it, with eyes open?

Never mind the poet's name, let the verse's theme be good;
we want the fruit; what business is it whose tree it is?

Since it denies having hunted the bird of the heart,
O archer, whose feather is on your arrow?

The cause of my wonder on the night of union is this, Ameer:
is my head on my knee, or whose head is this on my knee?

Ghazal: Ever since I pictured that face full of light

Ever since I pictured that face full of light,
the light of the lamp of Sinai has spread through all my house.

Why should my fevered heart not burn at my upside-down fortune?
Even camphor ointment has made the sore break open.

I am so eager, ascetic, for the light of God
that if I ever had an idol made, it was of the stone of Sinai.

We brought you into the house and burned paradise with envy;
we embraced you, and pushed the houri aside.

Why is the infidel's grave so pitch-dark?
Perhaps the shadow of my dark night has fallen on it.

Between Joseph's beauty and yours there is this difference:
this is a blow at close range; that was a stroke from afar.

Someone's palace of the body was ruined, and the gravedigger profited;
someone's house fell down, and the labourer's house was built.

Shamed by the beloved's face, it was hidden in paradise,
the picture of the houri that the pen of fate drew.

What need of the tire-woman for a shining face?
See, who trims the wick of the candle of Sinai?

The wonders of God's power are plain in my love's tress and face:
the hem of the dark night is in the sun's grip.

Be humble, if you want a place in the eyes:
the stone of Sinai, turned to dust, becomes collyrium. [TN: collyrium from Sinai, *surma-e-Tur*, was prized.]

When do the ears of the heedless open at the uproar of Resurrection?
A noise from afar cannot wake the sleepers.

O people of non-being, ask me all the news of home;
let me sit down a moment; I have come from far.

God's chosen are humble even before the enemy of their lives:
Mansur's head bowed at the foot of the gallows. [TN: Mansur al-Hallaj, executed in 922 for crying "I am the Truth".]

What came was death, and I was cured of the fever of parting:
with the breath going out, the sick man's body grew cool.

We are leaving the tavern of the world for non-being;
tell the self-forgetting that our purpose is far.

What do the wicked fear from the accidents of time?
The hornets' nest does not fall in the rain.

The eye of the cup does not weep blood every moment for no reason;
cupbearer, the grape's heart has broken over the tavern boys.

We are leaving the tavern of the world for non-being;
tell the self-forgetting that our purpose is far.

Whomever she looked at with displeasure stayed silent;
the dust of my love's glance has the effect of vermilion. [TN: red lead, *sindur*, was held to ruin the voice.]

The beloved's splendour is everywhere, if you have insight:
in the glow-worm is the glory of the candle of Sinai.

When I die, Ameer, I shall reach my friends in non-being;
life will go as I walk, for the journey is long.

Ghazal: Ever since you took two straws, nightingale

Ever since you took two straws, nightingale,
lightnings have been falling for their sake.

Youth itself is youth's adornment;
simplicity is the jewel of that age.

Who will see spring in the wilderness?
For whom do flowers bloom in the jungle?

They belong to the whole world except me,
those for whom I gave up the world.

Gardener, let the buds be of a light colour;
they are to be sent to a young one.

The ascetics dislike all the beauties;
now some houri will come for them.

The day of union, and so short!
Days were counted for that day.

If the sleep of morning could be had, Ameer,
we would send it as a gift to the muezzin.

Naat: In the ring of the messengers he is the moon of Medina

In the ring of the messengers he is the moon of Medina;
how the moon's radiance is sifted among the stars!

Let someone in Medina say to my Jesus
that the life of the one sick with love is now in danger.

Without seeing the beloved they are swooning:
what colour of Uwais of Qaran there is in the lovers! [TN: Uwais al-Qarani of Yemen, who loved the Prophet without ever meeting him.]

The traveller to Medina is far better off than at home:
here, the morning at home is the evening of exile.

When the houris saw him on the Ascension, they said,
"Of what fine features is this young man of Medina!"

He has burned for a lifetime, yet he is not burned out;
of what candle is Uwais of Qaran the moth?

The lovers were not asked for their deeds at the Resurrection;
how love has mended what was spoiled!

The memory of Ahmad the Chosen is in the Kaaba of the heart;
in Mecca the splendour of the moon of Medina is plain.

With what longing the travellers go to Medina!
This exile is far dearer than home.

Every palm of Medina says to the traveller,
"Rest a while; here the shade is thick."

It is not possible to come even into the embrace of imagination;
your delicacy of body is greater even than the houris'.

The claim of love for the beloved of God!
What courage God's servants have! God is the Self-sufficient.

The colour of Uwais drips from my eyes:
every piece of my liver is a Yemeni carnelian.

I am among the slaves of him who is the master of all:
the chief of the messengers, the lord of Mecca and Medina.

Where the enemies begged for quarter, it stopped as it came:
in Husain's sword too was the gentleness of Hasan. [TN: the Prophet's grandsons, Husain the martyr and Hasan the peacemaker.]

In every heart is the splendour of God's beloved;
in every mirror is the reflection of the beauty of Medina.

The place of slaughter is a garden; the houris throng round the corpse;
how my blood-red shroud is steeped in colour!

How far the sighs of Uwais of Qaran have reached!
In the gardens of Medina there is the breeze of Yemen.

Let me go to the tomb full of light and recite some praise;
this, Ameer, is what my heart is now set on.

Ghazal: They take the heart apart, the goods apart, the life apart

They take the heart apart, the goods apart, the life apart;
they make up all their own affairs by quarrelling.

Some idol is sure to come into sight before evening
whenever we rise in the morning and take the name of God.

When we drinkers sit in the gathering of the sermon,
we seat the daughter of the vine beside us too.

For such a kiss she asks for the heart: how fine!
If she thought about it, what does she give, and what does she take?

You have had me removed from your gathering for nothing, sir;
I sit quietly apart; what am I taking from you?

What things the idols are! May God keep them safe!
They curse the poor and receive their blessings.

Jewels are seen in the branch of coral, Ameer,
whenever she presses her finger between her teeth.

Ghazal: The heart in my breast is somewhat wasted

The heart in my breast is somewhat wasted;
it is somewhat helpless with grief.

The garment of existence does not fit the body;
it is somewhat like a borrowed robe.

Where is the narcissus's eye, and where that eye?
What intoxication? It is somewhat like a hangover.

The palm of hope has neither flower nor fruit;
it is somewhat like a tree without spring.

Cupbearer, in parting this is no cloud;
there is something like dust in the sky.

Yesterday the heart's restlessness was a calamity;
today too it is somewhat restless.

The heart is dead, so the breast is a grave;
the scar is somewhat like a candle on a tomb.

One craves the world, another paradise:
he is somewhat a drinker, and somewhat pious.

Before this, Ameer was in his senses;
now he is somewhat helpless.

Ghazal: They came making the heart aware of the way my love glances

They came making the heart aware of the way my love glances;
even the arrows came telling tall stories. [TN: an idiom: *be-par ki urana*, "to fly without feathers", is to tell tall tales.]

The door of the Magian elder is a court of kings:
hundreds kept going, hundreds kept coming.

Even when she came secretly to my house,
she came letting the doorkeepers hear the jingle of her anklets.

When the madmen of the tress were summoned on the Day of Resurrection,
they came wearing fetters and making an uproar.

What will you say, Ameer, if someone asks you at the Resurrection
why you did not come putting right what had gone wrong?

Ghazal: What famous men have vanished without a trace

What famous men have vanished without a trace!
What skies the earth has swallowed!

Your proud glance picked them out one by one and killed them,
what sharp and handsome young men!

No flowers, no buds, no new shoots, no leaves:
what gardens have fallen to autumn!

Here I laid my hand on my breast from pain;
there, what suspicions crossed her mind!

This world is a crone thousands of years old,
yet see what young men she ogles!

Your devoted ones have the same bearing,
though what daggers run across their throats!

By the alms of your youth, just raise your eyes:
see what young men are writhing!

Autumn has plundered the whole garden;
what gardeners were left writhing!

Ameer, now verse will be greatly valued;
what connoisseurs of subtlety will flourish!

Ghazal: The veil keeps slipping from her face, slowly, slowly

The veil keeps slipping from her face, slowly, slowly;
the sun is coming out, slowly, slowly.

When she began to grow up she took to veiling herself from me:
modesty came all at once, and youth slowly, slowly.

I have been awake all the night of parting; angels, let me sleep now;
do the reckoning some time at leisure, slowly, slowly. [TN: the recording angels who keep the account of a man's deeds.]

At my request for union she is so afraid of my rival
that she gives her answer with pressed lips, slowly, slowly.

Let her cut off my head without pity, Ameer, and let me say to her,
"Your Honour, slowly, slowly; my lady, slowly, slowly."

Ghazal: There is a sword, there is a spear: to whom shall I give, to whom not

There is a sword, there is a spear: to whom shall I give, to whom not?
There is one feeble life: to whom shall I give, to whom not?

The guest here is the *huma*, there the beloved's dog:
there is a handful of bones: to whom shall I give, to whom not?

He has a thousand doorkeepers; here is one coin of life;
where is so much wealth? To whom shall I give, to whom not?

The nightingale wants the flowers, and so does the flower-picker;
the gardener is bewildered: to whom shall I give, to whom not?

Everyone wants from her the promise of union;
she says, "It is my word: to whom shall I give, to whom not?"

The princess, the daughter of the vine, has thousands of suitors;
the Magian elder is silent: to whom shall I give, to whom not?

My friends want a kiss, and so do strangers;
the life of my life is dumbfounded: to whom shall I give, to whom not?

Thousands of beauties ask me for my heart, Ameer;
how great a gift it is! To whom shall I give, to whom not?

Ghazal: You speak plainly, yet nothing of what you say is clear

You speak plainly, yet nothing of what you say is clear;
even your speaking is speaking in riddles.

Messenger, weep as you tell that coquette of my weeping;
if she laughs at it, then speak the word of longing.

Like a letter, how much is said in not saying!
Neither my manner of silence, nor anyone's speaking.

O Lord, lengthen the night of union a little more;
morning is near, and what we have to say to her!

When my love's dog springs and tears my rivals to pieces,
I say, "My lion, how splendid you are!"

Here a hundred storms lie at the root of every eyelash;
it is the height of heedlessness to call my eye a river.

When she heard the verses in praise of her face, she laughed and said,
"They are verses of light; your speaking is light."

You will not bear the splendour of the sight at all;
O holy Moses, do not say "Show me" with your mouth. [TN: Moses' plea *arini*, "Show me Yourself", Quran 7:143.]

I have vowed that I will never say anything with my mouth;
now if I speak even the truth, call me a liar.

Do not grind my tears into the dust out of spite;
it is not right to call a true pearl false.

How foolish are those who call the good bad!
Even if he is bad, one should call him good.

At least at the last breath, idols, let me remember God;
all my life I did as you said.

Seeing that idol, even the angels call down blessings:
"Bravo! God bless him! God bless him! How splendid!"

O idols, if you came and performed your graces in the mosque,
the lip of the prayer-niche would say, "God's name! How splendid!"

These beauties take offence when you praise them;
the truth is, it is bad to call them good.

Longing draws me to the Kaaba, desire toward the temple;
my God, whose word shall I obey?

Despoil the whole gathering with signs, my life;
learn the art of the witty word from the eloquent eye.

Wasting and wasting in love for a waist, I am left half of myself;
the garment of my body should be called a half-sleeved jacket.

I carry out your commands with my eyes, Your Honour,
but you do not listen to my words even with your ears.

Ameer, it is a saying of the master, from nimbleness of mind:
"Though the ground be slack, one should still speak well." [TN: *zamin*, the metrical "ground" of a ghazal; a slack or awkward pattern of metre and refrain.]

Ghazal: Separation from my love kept me restless all night

Separation from my love kept me restless all night:
now I put the pillow this way, now I put it that way.

In exile I kept the mark of my broken heart:
when I wrote to my people at home, I clipped off one corner. [TN: a letter with a corner torn off was a sign of bad news.]

She did not value the heart even as much as the mirror:
this she kept under her feet, that she kept before her eyes.

My tears of blood laid waste both eye and heart;
this was a strange wayward child: it left neither house nor door.

When I got even one piece of the stone of your threshold,
I held it so dear that in death I kept it on my breast.

Why should I not take the counsellor with me to paradise?
That is how kindly the worthy man has treated me.

Who did not plead for me with the killer at the time of my killing?
The bow joined its hands, the sword laid its head at her feet.

Let wrath rain down! As soon as I came, I could see
that, finding the place empty, my rivals had filled it round my love.

Her slip of the foot did me a great favour,
for she put her hand on my shoulder without restraint.

In the earth we became a grain of wheat, in the oyster a pearl:
our humility kept us in the field in every battle. [TN: or "kept us a pearl", *durr*.]

I took every footprint of yours on the road for a place of prostration:
wherever you set your foot, there I too set my head.

Ameer made a good omen for wine in the absence of the cupbearer:
when the cloud of mercy rained, he filled the flasks with it in place of wine.

Ghazal: The *qibla* of the heart, the Kaaba of the soul, is another

The *qibla* of the heart, the Kaaba of the soul, is another; [TN: *qibla*, the direction of prayer.]
the place of prostration of the knowers of God is another.

They have their throats cut gladly:
the lovers' Feast of Sacrifice is another. [TN: Id al-Adha, when animals are sacrificed.]

Here the light is the same day and night;
the illumination of the heart's scars is another.

The spring of flowers shows only a semblance;
nightingales, our garden is another.

In captivity, rest; freedom, a burden:
the prison of us captives is another.

In the sea of love a boat is of no use;
tell Noah this flood is another.

Who fears lightning and flood?
The keeper of our harvest is another.

That pain in the heart, that scar on the breast,
whose ointment, whose cure is another.

The face is the Kaaba, the brow the prayer-niche, O Ameer;
our worship, our faith, is another.

Ghazal: For me, a drunkard, the smell of wine is plenty

For me, a drunkard, the smell of wine is plenty;
for a madman one cry of "Hu!" is plenty. [TN: *Hu*, "He", the Sufi cry naming God.]

If it is God-given, like a pearl's,
even a little lustre is plenty.

Let patience and senses go, if they are going;
O pain, you are plenty for me.

Do not press forward like Moses, O heart; [TN: Moses, who spoke with God, *Kalim*, and asked to see Him.]
this talk of pain is plenty.

If the wine has no kick, what are jar upon jar?
If it is good, one pitcher is plenty.

What difficulties there are on the night of union!
The time is short, the longing plenty.

O despair, if the heart's blood is what is wanted,
for us the longing is plenty.

O lancet of grief, though the body be dry a hundred thousand times,
there is plenty of blood for your edge.

Why should I weep if she teases with her eyelashes?
A hair is plenty to prick the eyes.

Like the bud in the garden, cupbearer,
my own pitcher is plenty for me.

What grief, Ameer, if there is no wealth?
In these times, honour is plenty.

Ghazal: O Lord, either that adept in cruelty would be in my power

O Lord, either that adept in cruelty would be in my power,
or, if not that, would that I had power over my heart!

Would that after death I had union with my love just so:
she at the head of the grave, and I beneath it.

Long live your tavern, cupbearer, and may your jar be safe!
Why would my intoxication pass, why would I have a hangover?

I am so hopeless that despair would sob and weep
if I found some support somewhere and became hopeful.

No flower in this garden asks after me;
had my heart been scarred, it would have been a garland for the neck.

Writhing gave me such pleasure that this is my wish, O Lord:
that there were a restless heart on both my sides.

If that idol had come and shown me her face even at my last breath,
I would not have been so ashamed before the face of God.

The angels would not question me, nor the grave squeeze me,
if my tomb were on the road to the killer's lane.

If you looked at me, tyrant, why did you then avoid my eyes?
Why did you not shoot that very arrow which would have gone through my liver?

With my tongue I can call you true a hundred thousand times,
but what can I do, when the heart does not believe it?

Not even my dust remained in the grave, Ameer,
and still they do not believe that I have died.