English
Number 10
The brand of madness has found a place on my head once more;
my star has cast its shadow over me again.
We who are burned by fate know nothing of feasting and joy;
when any festival comes to our country, it turns to mourning.
Even after we perish, we who are burned lose no worth:
the mirror brightens its eye from our ashes.
Our days are dark, yet when love casts its ray,
our garment becomes a robe of honor on our body, like a lamp.
On the bed of comfort we find no rest;
like a precious blade's gem, only a sword's edge can be our resting place.
Even the shadow of the Huma's wing would weigh like a hair upon us,
if the brand of your love already shadows our head.
The yellow pallor of our face is worth no more than a straw,
unless love's slap stamps its mark on us like coin upon gold.
It is not from riches that we look down on the heavens;
the satin sky itself feels too tight against our body.
When our morning rises from the horizon of the glass,
our wine cup makes the sun's splendor pale in our sight.
We are rakish, drunk, our skirts soaked with wine; and you, lavish ascetic,
we have no mind like yours, so leave us alone.