Sleep is for the untroubled. I lie awake all night, unable to sleep
nor rise, shepherding the stars, my elbow for a pillow,
my eyes propped open by anxiety, the malady that cancels slumber.
She went off with my heart and won't set it free.
If I don't see her then I won't get better. What healing
is there for the lovesick if she won't come near?
She ensnared my heart with the eyes of a doe that heeds
the squeak of her helpless newborn on the ground,
and the cool of her teeth in their orderly rows—as if
twice rinsed with camphor is their flavor—
and the untwitching neck of a white gazelle as it nibbles
leaves and berries from the arāk-tree,
and a haunch like a mound of sand, steep and curving.
No slim-hipped, girdled thing is she [whom I describe].
She's like the fair-hued pearl disembedded by a diver
who braves the depths of Dārīn where it lay.
From year to year he’s craved it, ever since his moustache sprouted.
Yearning agitates the diver in old age.
The desire of his soul is unremitting, and he flings [care for] it aside,
and when he catches sight of his desire, he burns for it.
The pearl is guarded by a jinn—a burly one who sets men amaze.
His eyes are open and he is on it.
Always mindful of the pearl, he circles it,
vigilant for thieves who prowl the deep,
coveting it. The pearl might surrender its enclosure
to a diver who risks drowning to obtain it!
Who craves the pearl in the whirl of the unfathomable is parted
from his life, and perishes beneath its heaving surface.
Who gains it gains eternity without end.
His satisfaction is complete, and he is blessed and happy.
That’s how she is. Your soul inflames your hope for her,
and you are ruined, and burnt is what you get.
