All Sick the Heart with Love for Her

All sick the heart with love for her, sad at the feast of woe:
Bent form, the harp; low wail, the flute; heart's blood for wine doth flow.

Prone lies the frame her path's dust 'neath, in union's stream the eye,
In air the mind, the soul 'midst separation's fiery glow.

O ever shall it be my lot, zone-like, thy waist to clasp!
'Twixt us, O love, the dagger-blade of severance doth show!

Thou art the Queen of earth, thy cheeks are Towers of might, this day,
Before thy Horse, like Pawns, the Kings of grace and beauty go.

Him hinder not, beside thee let him creep, O Shade-like stay!
Bâqî, thy servant, O my Queen, before thee lieth low.