O heart, love has worn me down,
For love's beginning is sickness.
He walks silently beside me,
And my ear yearns for words.
This is my beloved... Alas!
He has the right to greet me.
I give him my fleeting moments of joy,
He departs... As if in a dream.
The beating of my heart is a cry,
With which I fear the reproach of the sleeping.
My beautiful face is a dove,
And his hands are flocks of doves.
Why is he so unconcerned,
While love has shattered even the rock?
My love has concealed its flaws;
Who says my beloved is to be blamed?
For he has the hoped-for station,
And without him, where is the station?
**
