Rendered from the Urdu by Inayat Khan and Jessie Duncan Westbrook
the long night.
Look on my face how pale!
Will naught my love avail?
Naught my desire?
Hold it as gold that is
Cleansed of impurities
Tried in the fire.
Pity my heart distrest,
Caught by that loveliest
Tress of thine hair,
So that I fear the shade
Even by thine eyebrows made
O'er eyes so fair.
Thou, Sorrow, wilt keep and wilt cherish the memory of me
Long after my death,
For thou dwelt at my heart, and my blood nourished thee,
Thou wert warmed by my breath.
My heart has disgraced me by clamour and wailing for years
And tossing in pain,
Mine eyes lost their honour by shedding these torrents of tears
Like fast-falling rain.
O Wind of Disaster, destroy not the home of my heart
With the blasts of thine ire,
For there I have kindled to burn in a chamber apart
My Lamp of Desire.
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