Number 18

The blade of your graceful brow thirsts for our blood; the lovely line of your face is the headline of our lesson in madness. Our star was never this dark before; your hair cast its shadow over our wretched fate. Your mischief-making eyes are not flushed from wine; the hem of their coy beauty is stained with our blood. We are honest and single-hearted with everyone, like a mirror: whatever lies inside us, it shows on the outside. Fayyaz, how can I give thanks for this black fortune? In the end it led me straight to the curls of beautiful idols.