It Slipped From My Hands

The doorman won't dare, though the king's favorites are there; let someone tell the sultan: things have gotten beyond me. Don't break our thread of closeness, you who love to break things off, for once you tear it apart you can never tie it back together. Now you regret what you did, after a sigh has risen from my heart and an arrow has already left the bow. I'm afraid you'll be hurt by this game; think it over. How long can you keep burning a heart, wounding a soul? I'll endure your scorn, because there's no one like you for me; you kill me cruelly, because there are so many like me for you. Your face was a moon, but the sky's moon went dim beside it; your figure was a cypress, but the garden's cypress bowed before it. I'm faint with weakness, friends, lend a hand; bring my hand to my collar, for my robe has slipped from my grasp. Lucky messenger, for God's sake, news of my love: I have heard nothing, so tell me if there's any word. Get up, your companions are ready to set out, if you mean, sleeper, to join this caravan. Master, have mercy on how helpless I am; I lost my whole stake and was left empty-handed. How can I pitch my tent by this spring, when whole crowds have gone with thirsty lips, and the spring is still right here? What a pity: we stayed in the trap this whole time, doctor, longing for a prey that escaped the corner of its cage.