Number 2

I don't know how to handle these tricks of mine to win over that beloved so full of tricks. With the sword of cruelty he spills the blood of my heart, just to dye his own hands with my heart's blood. Poor and empty-handed as I am, I fear that union will never fall into the hands of the empty-handed. If one day I catch the hem of his union, I'll never let it go from my grasp until Judgment Day. The parrot of my nature can never capture his qualities, no matter how much it describes that eloquent nightingale. My heart craves him; but what can I say if my short reach can't touch that tall cypress? His drunken narcissus eyes hunt for my heart's torment, the eyes that, in their quarrel, set even the sober reeling. If I see his beautiful face I have no wish for the garden, for no rose in the orchard is like his cheek. Anyone who has seen my adorned beloved in all his life will never go to gaze at any gallery of paintings. This blow means nothing to Sadi, and no wonder, if the grief of parting from him wipes out all that exists.