Souls Are Fluttered When the Morning Breezes Through

Souls are fluttered when the morning breezes through thy tresses stray;
Waving cypresses are wildered when thy motions they survey.

Since with witchcraft thou hast whetted keen the lancet of thy glance,
All my veins are bleeding inward through my longing and dismay.

"Why across thy cheek disordered float thy tresses?" asked I her.
"It is Rûm-Eyli; there high-starred heroes gallop," did she say.

Thought I, though I spake not: "In thy quarter, through thy tint and scent,
Wretched and head-giddy, wand'ring, those who hope hope not for stray."

"Whence the anger in thy glances, O sweet love!" I said; then she:
"Silence! surely if I shed blood, I the ensigns should display."

Even as thou sighest, 'Avnî, shower thine eyes tears fast as rain.
Like as follow hard the thunder-roll the floods in dread array.