Sing, O my heart, in jubilant appeal,The bearer comes with tidings glad and real!
Rejoice, O Jalal—thou art the soul's content;Thy mother's love—what mortal measurement?
O Jalal, when thou seest me inflamed,Thou seest too my heart by deeds ashamed.
Thou seest hopes lie wounded, sore complaining,Near shores where night-tears fall, unceasing, raining.
O Jalal, I am prisoner of the placeThat whispers memories of my youthful race.
Thou driest up my springs, as though I'd ne'erExisted—yet thou fillest all my air.