The Old Man of Canaan

If you had not planted in me the longing to be with my love, my life, you would never have left me alive to carry the grief of separation. My cypress, my beloved, is soaked in the blood of my heart's tears; I don't care if the gardener refused to let me stay in the garden. There is no difference now between me and my own shadow, so thin has this burning heart worn me down in its fire. My state has become like the old man of Canaan, and now, when I see you, a flood of tears pours from my weeping eyes. The garment of my soul is torn in the wilderness of love, and still on every side a hundred thorns of grief cling to my hem. Lord, may no one be left as I am, cut off from union with the beloved, you who cast me out from my love's company. This patience I show with people is all for your sake; otherwise, when would I ever care what slanderers say of me? My house is a furnace and my carpet is made of ashes, so that, like Mohyi, you may call me the ruined and helpless one.