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The roses hear the news
from the wind that stirs
the garden: You’re coming.
Their petals open softly.
They kiss your feet sweetly.
Unveil your moon-like face
and Joseph won’t be looking
homeward, longing for Canaan.
The sight of you would stun him,
he’d offer you all his love.
The image of your loveliness is the
only remedy for the heart’s despair.
Suffering souls, don’t pick at your
wounds and make them bleed.
Here’s the solace you crave.
Even though the hunted deer leaves
a musky scent upon the wind,
he’s difficult to find. Although your
fragrance permeates the world,
how hard it is to reach you!
What a happy moment, Makhfi,
laying your song of love at
your Belovéd’s feet. This is how
to gladden all your days: keep on
singing your soul’s rapture.
