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When I’m in the springtime garden,
I sing the nightingale’s song.
If the gardener tries to entrap me,
I’ll smile the rose’s smile.
The garden’s morning breeze
never brings me joy or gladness.
That useless puff of air never carries
the fragrance of your clothing.
I wait at the garden door.
I’m not so unfortunate:
I’ll stay at your holy doorstep
and dust it with my lashes.
Your captive bird, my heart,
beats her fragile wings in vain.
Yet even you cannot imprison
the prisoner’s sighs in silence.
I’ve searched in vain for the phoenix
of the Self. My maddened heart has
always yearned for you. Your wings
have always tantalized my soul.
You who keep me from my quest:
If you try to run from my wrath,
escape into the deepest sea, my
soul on fire will find and conquer you.
Nightingale, sing gladly in the garden.
Makhfi’s won for you the springtime that
blossoms in your heart. But in her heart,
the barren winds of lonely autumn blow.
