O dove on the bán tree at Dhát al-Ghaḍá

O dove on the bán tree at Dhát al-Ghaḍá, I am oppressed by the burden thou hast laid upon me.
Who can support the anguish of love? Who can drain the bitter draught of destiny?
I say in my grief and burning passion, 'O would that he who caused my sickness had tended me when I am sick!'
He passed by the house-door mocking, hiding himself, veiling his head and turning away.
His veiling did me no hurt; I was only hurt by his having turned away from me.