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The nightingale sings of nothing but
her love for you.
For you, the moth flew into fire,
now her silken wings are burning.
Look: Craving you clings like tears
of wine to every goblet’s rim.
There’s no ease, no relief for me anywhere.
Whether blindly or by choice, I’ve tripped into
your trap. I’m ensnared, you’ve captured me.
I’ve cried so long and hard,
my heart has bled so heavily,
there’s no weeping left in me.
Fountains fail, the source is dry,
there’s nothing left.
Tossing in wild remorse, Makhfi, you
burn in flames of unanswered love and
unending desire. That’s your penance
for telling the secrets of love so timidly.
