1. A heart from which passion drew near, wounded,
And an eyelid from which sleep stayed far, bleary.

2. So my heart is for ardor and my tears for weeping,
When lightning gleams or a breeze stirs.

3. I task my eyes to pour forth their water,
Though but for passion I would be stingy with it.

4. My friend reproaches me and claims to counsel me,
Yet is there in censurers any counsel?

5. If the critics were fair with the one racked by torment,
My friend, no sickness reproves the sound.

6. So why should the raven of estrangement croak after
The loved ones' intents have come to him unsullied?

7. In the earth their shrouds have parted us;
Each turned from the other’s fledgling. Why then cry out?