the passion

The passion of my heart is sharp
and stealing ever on, brings pain;
burns like a stirred-up fire, smokeless;
wastes like a mortal fever every limb.
My father cannot save me nor my mother
nor even you, my friend.




The lotus pond is bristling with pink buds;
the nights grow shorter while the empyrean’s gem,
its cloak of frost unloosed, grows bold.
Now come the days resounding with the cuckoo
and sweet with mango scent
to cut the hearts of ladies separated from their lovers.