Number 25

Every dawn I whisper my message to the wind through my weeping, so it might carry my heart's condition to that cypress-tall one born of angels. I have thrown myself on the dust of the road before her door like a servant, for at this threshold I saw that humbling oneself was the way to honor. Though my tears sank into the ground under the schooling of her sorrow, in the end my heart carried its cry all the way to the sky. I want to lay a foundation of patience upon the ground of my heart, but her love keeps tearing down the wall of that foundation. Since praise of those lips became my constant chant within every word, I recite these prayers sweet, lovely, and brief. My eye spoke of kinship with the family of her ruby lips, to prove the bond; let these human-born tears stand as witness before it. From her intoxicating eyes, Qasemi, my heart tosses in a wave of blood; that black-hearted hunter showed no mercy to her own prey.