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Moth, this flame isn’t fierce enough
to burn those hopeful wings of yours.
This torch isn’t bright enough
to light up these palace halls.
My eyes have scattered pearls of tears.
I’ve given away my most precious jewel.
So what? No consolation comes to me.
All is in vain.
My tale of woe, my separation from
the Friend, is long and bitter and
even though my life is over
it doesn’t end.
Wine-bearer, your cup brings no
comfort to me. Give your remedy to
someone else. The only wine I drink
is blood.
We tell stories of love, one after another,
forging links in a chain. The chain binds
my grieving heart. I can only dream
of freedom.
Battered by snarling storms at sea,
my boat has broken apart. My house
has fallen down, vulture winds sweep
through its dust.
Yet, Makhfi, if the fire of compassion
should ignite within your heart,
your barren desert would bloom —
become lush, a garden paradise.
