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I’ve struggled long and hard in vain against you.
I’ve won nothing in this fight. I guard my heart
and turn away from you, my Enemy, forever.
No wonder that the fire inside me rises into
fiercely leaping flames, or that my sorrow sighs
rise to cloud the heavens’ vision, already veiled.
No, I don’t attend your feasts. But don’t think
that I am through with joy. I’m true to the dream
I’ve cherished, its wine runs through my blood.
I’ll never find the end of sorrow in this valley
of Despair. I pray: at least one day of rest,
one night of peace. Is that too much to ask?
My longing’s intense. I work to exhaustion.
Even so, I can’t remove the grime or rust from
the mirror of my desire. It stays dirty, dim.
I’m weak, don’t have the will, don’t dare to open
the purse that holds my treasure, let the golden
coins spill into my lap. I’m poor, I’m poor indeed.
Makhfi, see clearly. Once you free your vision
from greedy illusion, the holy man’s ragged shawl
looks more regal than the robes of royalty.
