Number 14

What your love has done in this world, I swear to God, not even the turning sky has done. What grudge does your love hold against my heart? It stole my heart and now it's after my life. That is no beauty mark; it's the reflection of my eye, printing its mark on your delicate face. Your hat is rightly called a night-cover, since it hides your dark hair away. The sun throws down its shield before your face, even though it wields a hundred blades at its side. Ever since the sky learned coquetry from you, it has spent years perfecting the art. Why has that curling, twisting hair of yours knit its face into folds against me like that? It teased me, then took my life; truly, it has caused me such loss.