The Beloved Learns of the Lover's State

On those dark nights, restless and undone, I cried out and wept until my grief was almost spent. Perhaps my sighing reached that slender, flower-bodied one, who caught the sound from the corner of the rooftop. She took pity on my weeping and, gliding gracefully, turned toward those beside her. She quietly asked one of those playful, angel-faced ones to tell her the whole story. Who is this poor, love-sick soul, lost in a raw, hopeless longing that only brings him pain? Who is he searching for in our street? Why does he keep circling around us? Who left him so sleepless and without peace? What bait was scattered to catch him in this snare? Who left him with no food and no sleep, and from grief turned his eyes to weeping blood? Whose glance shot the arrow into his soul, so that the hunter himself became the hunted? What flood blocked his path? What bold, teasing eye led him astray? She was answered: this man who has lost his heart comes drunk to our street every single night. Sometimes he rolls in the dust like the drunk, sometimes he bows down like an idol-worshipper. No one hears from him anything but moaning; in his madness he tells his secret to no one. In this pain he has no one to rescue him; no companion but his own cold sighs. All through these dark nights, he moans at times, and at times he weeps bitterly. By night he keeps company with the stars, and when day comes he turns away again. He forever streaks his face with tears of blood, and no one knows this poor man's state. With a laugh she said: this raw one has stumbled; it seems he has just now fallen into this snare. No true lover weeps so pitifully, nor sinks to such humiliation and self-pity. His flame burns far too fiercely; it seems his mind has come undone. Such a frenzied one is slow to find any calm; such a sick one is slow to find a cure. In this state, our street is no place for him; a madman like this needs to be put in chains. Where will he find the key to this lock, the balm to soothe this wounded heart? Who would seek friendship with someone like this? Who would mend the fractures in his soul? You imagined a heart, you played at honor; you wasted your pity on one already at peace.