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It’s spring! Wake up! Heaven-scented
iris and narcissus cast their spell, the
cup-bearer spills the wine he worships.
Stay on the path. Belovéd, we’d die
for a glance from you, the tyrant
who tramples our pride.
Some worship at the mosque.
Some pray at the temple. Makhfi,
you’re lucky: the idol you adore
lives always in your heart.
