Number 3

I have not idly girded myself against the spite of fate; I have made the Lord of the Dhulfiqar my ally and helper. What harm can fear of autumn do to the garden of my hope, when it is I who water its spring with burning tears? I cling to the hope of bowing my face at a threshold that forever lines the eye of expectation with the kohl of promises. I press my heart's wound against my chest. How long, in the grief of love, must I crush the longing for tulip fields against my heart's desire? The seed of my longing will not rise from the soil of sorrow. How many times must I send my weeping eyes to plead for me? What use is the lovely lament tearing through my breath, when I have already handed the reins of my will into love's hand? However long, like Fayyaz, my eyes pour out their rows of tears, weeping cannot carry the dust of grief out of my heart.