English
Number 12
My breath is too cramped to fill my long, aching chest.
So come, my cry, and send up smoke from this cage of mine.
Whose hope still follows after this caravan,
when the throat of our bell is scratched raw from wailing?
Your blade flashed over me like lightning, what grief,
for this flame would not fit in my body of straw.
Even if my longing breaks its fast in paradise,
it will still be left starved of the bounty of seeing you.
Weak as we are, with love to help us,
our fly outshines even the Simorgh.
My life is yours, on one condition: that in my dying breath
my gaze stays turned on your face.
Fayyaz, who in this caravan now stirs the senses,
so tonight our bell sings out drunk with joy?