|‘Do not ask me, stars, about the garden of the world;|
It is no garden, but a town filled with sighs and screams.
The west wind arrives there, only to leave again;
The poor bud blooms, but only to Wither.
How do I describe to you the bud that brightens the garden—
It is a tiny flame with no heat!
The rose cannot hear the nightingale’s cry,
Or pick up pearls from the fold of my hem.
The songbirds are captive—what an outrage!
Thorns grow in the rose’s shadow‑what an outrage!
The eyes of the ailing narcissus are never dry.
The heart longs to see, but the eyes are blind.
The ardour of its complaint has burnt the tall tree’s heart;
The tree is a captive, and is free only in name.
The stars ‑ in the language of men ‑ are sparks struck by human sighs;
In the language of gardens, I am the sky’s tears.
It is foolish how the moon circles the earth—
It believes that the earth will heal the scar in its heart!
The world is a cottage built in the air—
A picture of lament drawn on the canvas of space.’