Ghazal XLVIII

So tyrannous thine eyes,
Even the morning breeze is hot with wrath,
No soft assuagement in its breath it hath,
It only faints and dies.

Like Khizr, strong and fair,
Whose soul is steeped in the immortal spring,
The well of life, thou shalt be worshipping
With holy words of prayer.

Born to the Khalif's place,
None other heired such high estate as thine,
Thou hast the beauty that is all divine,
Fairer than peri's grace.

From hope I turned in hate;
No further now false hope can cozen me.
I know the cruel Heavens conspired with thee
To darken thus my fate.

Makhfi, thy life flows fast,
The days from out thy hand drop evermore;
O turn no weary traveller from thy door,
Give him what cheer thou hast.