Number 15

Because of one beautiful, tender face, my friends, I have neither heart nor faith left. If a painter tried to draw my beloved, the famous galleries of China would burn with envy. It seems the whole world is scattering perfume: a breeze is blowing in from some sweet land. I have no need for wine; I am already drunk from the hand of a rose-cheeked, moon-browed beauty. Better than the gardens of paradise and its dark-eyed maidens is a clear, lovely garden and a tender beloved. I packed up and left your street, yet still I cast one last, longing look behind me. You are that beautiful, shining moon whose harvest the sun itself comes to glean. If the hem of her robe ever falls into my hand, Ashraq, I will shake out my sleeve over both worlds in joy.