1. He wept, believing it had become a veil over love,
While people erred in enslaving the tear of youth.

2. As misguided as the illusion of death is passion,
For through time they have not tasted of its bitter arrows.

3. They think my tears are from the speck in my eye, continually,
While in truth, nothing makes me shed them but the burning of my heart.

4. So they do not consider it a home if its inhabitants live there,
Except for the eyelids' clouds pouring down rain.

5. It is not out of stinginess towards it, but rather
I see that the course of its floods is ever dry.

6. So occupy me from all things with one who is free,
A lover, though he be stingy of requited love.

7. If I convey my night to him, he remains angry,
And if I convey my morning to him, he counts it a sin against me.

8. When will I be rid of the injustice which I have borne,
While neither my heart nor my patience are with my companions?

9. And oh my thirst between avoidance and intention
To my days between avoidance and reproach!

10. And my longing for a tryst, even if there is no truth in it,
For nothing longs for falsehood.

11. Let the absent one traveling east carry your fragrance
To extinguish what they kindle on the west side.

12. Draw the beloved and the phantom away from me for a while,
For that is something which does no harm from being near.

13. And weeping in Damascus, either from a youthful whim
To family, or from rage at one incapable of books.

14. He stayed so neither destinies decree his return to them
Nor bring him near the home of fertility.

15. If distance does not convey the discerning one,
Then far from bringing near is a moist cloud.

16. And of no use to me are faces that are as if
They were flint, though I have a severe frown.