Number 8

Until the morning breeze scatters your hair, no one can picture the composure I keep together. Love drags me by the hair from the mosque to the temple. God, what a difference, from where to where? Whatever they said in praising you, from the moon above to the fish below, it was talk that spanned from the depths to the sky. It cannot be captured by any pen, though the whole world explained it until the end of time: the story of my love and your beauty. You are the beloved of my soul; like a candle before your beauty, tonight I long to burn from head to foot. Last night you said: in the mirror of my face, do you see God? I said: yes, by God I do. Qasem's heart gave up its precious life for loyalty to your beauty. What splendid faithfulness!