Zaburi Ajam [Electronic resources] نسخه متنی

6

Though dust, and dark as dust, am I,

I have a little heart, whereby

With vision open as a star

I gaze on beauty from afar.

Praying thy fingers may caress,

Unuttered is my heart’s distress;

And thou supposest that maybe

My lyre has lost its minstrelsy.

Do thou so quicken my desire

That, with a melody of fire,

I may the earthy heart make bright,

And wholly melt the heart of light.

The burning fever of my breed

Is symptom of my so great need;

Thou, who art God, and lackest naught,

Know’st not the anguish in me wrought,

I never sought to make this plain

Or keep it hid from any man;

My secret has itself displayed,

And so my melody was made.