When I met you, the stars grew jealous
And the clouds scattered around you
And the peaks, in their sorrow, wondered
Have the books ever truly described you?
O sweet-eyed one, you are here
Like a pure ingot, gold has fashioned you
You are the queen, your throne is a pen
And your abode is honour and rank
I gifted you beautiful poetry, as
Literature gifted you the roses of its letters
The lips were stained by their anemones
And the cheek lost its colour like grapes
And the wind asks about my beloved
Does she turn away? Is her stature like a reed?
The nightingale of our love sang you a melody
That drove the strings and the joy mad
Even the meadows turned to moonlight
The flowers knew not why
I love you... I said it joyfully
I love you, where is the blasphemy and the wonder?
**
