The Complaint Part 5

To glimpse the camel-litter, Qais no longer with his madness strains The yearnings of the heart are dead, the heart itself is cold; so we; And desolation fills our house for shines not there the Light of You. O blessed day when You shall come, a thousand graces in Your train When by unbashful glad feet turn towards our nesting-place again. Beside the garden fountain now, quaffing wine, strangers sit, alas! The cuckoo’s note their ear regales and their hands hold the sparkling glass! From all this garden’s riot far, Calm in a corner seated too, Love-longing lunatics await Your frenzy-kindling breath of 'hu'! The passion for the flame’s embrace—Your moths—ah, let them once more know; And bid Your ancient lightning strike and set these ash-cold hearts aglow! Towards the Hijaz turn again the straying tribe their bridle-strings! Lo, wingless soars the nightingale aloft, upon its yearning’s wings! The fragrance in each blossom hid within the garden palpitates, But with Your plectrum wake its strings—The lute that livening touch awaits! Yea, longs to break its prison’s bounds the string-imprisoned melody; And yearning Sinai waits again to burn itself to dust in You Resolve, O Lord! the travail sore which this Your chosen people tries, Make You the ant of little worth to Solomon’s proud stature rise! Bring You, O Lord, with our grasp that most rare love for which we pray; To India’s temple-squatters teach the truth of the Islamic way. Our hearts’ desires, long unfulfilled, unceasingly our life-blood drain; Our breasts, with thousand daggers pierced, still struggle with their cry of pain! The fragrance of the rose has borne the garden’s secret far away— How sad it is, the traitor’s role the garden’s sweetest buds should play! The bloom-time of the rose is done; the garden-harp now shattered lies; And from its perch upon the twig, away each feathered songster flies— But yet there uncompanioned sits A lonely bulbul, all day long; Its throat a-throb with music still and pouring out its heart in song. The darkening cypress sways no more; from shadowy nests its doves have fled; The withered blossoms droop and die, and all around their petals shed; Those memoried, old garden walks of all their former pride lie shorn, Despoiled of raiment green, each branch in nakedness now stands forlorn; Unmoved by passing seasons’ change, the songster sits and sings alone: Would there were in this garden some could feel the burden of its moan!