An Idol More Delicate Than Rose and Dew

I have a lover with a face worth a hundred moons and suns, more delicate than a fresh flower, more fragrant than rosewater. More graceful than the wild rose standing in the garden, more charming than the tall cypress by the water's edge. Beside her face, the jasmine in the meadow burns with envy; feverish with shame at her glow, the wine sweats in the cup. One form, and a hundred graces; one face, and a hundred beauties; one glance, and a hundred flirtations; one ruby lip, and a hundred reproaches. The sun would hide itself behind a veil of shame if she ever lifted the veil from her life-giving face. Our souls are captives in the coils of her hair, our hearts roasted by her drunken eyes. I cry out at those two dark, curling locks like musky hyacinths; I beg for mercy from those two half-sleeping, bewitching eyes. Whenever she kneels close and offers me wine, in that moment I would give my life to the wind, fragile as a bubble. On the day she is with me, I, Obayd, on that day am blessed with pleasure and fulfilled in life.