Alas that I am thy brother once more
And thus am a tranquil lover no more!
The hand which did command elegance and grace
Shall cling to mine or rest my lips no more.
The face that caught my stare, lovely and fair
I can behold and cherish now no more.
The budding lips I wished to kiss and missed
Can whisper me salaam and little more.
The ears so dear of love I wished would hear
O what is there to whisper now — what more?
And for her eyes my harrowed heart still cries;
Shall I see my gardens in them once more?
And though her love halts with her doubtful heart,
Motamid waits until he lives no more.