The Story of a Lover's Cruelty

I don't know how long he will keep hurting me. I won't say it, but in the end my heart will grow sick of him. If he stays this cruel for even a few more days, my body will fall ill and my soul will break apart. My luck has fallen into the sleep of death, and my friends tell me: cry out and wail, and maybe he will wake. For God's sake, don't set out for the garden with a face like that, for I know the gardener will feel ashamed before his own flowers. Don't wave your hand about so freely, my graceful cypress, for the very wits of my soul are wounded by the play of your hand. How can I describe to people my beloved's cruelty and my own pain, when, without offering comfort, they tell me he will become your friend. How long will Mohyi carry this grief, this torn heart and burning liver? This is love, and things like this will only keep multiplying.