Many are the pains I've endured, what a shame!
My desires not fulfilled, not at all, what a shame!
In this world every door that I saw, I opened,
but no heart-holder’s face I ever saw, what a shame!
I became despondent, for before this hopeful eye
no fair-cheeked beauty ever came, what a shame!
Never did I see in this world a rose-garden
that didn't scrape my eye with a thorn, what a shame!
A beloved have I who does not recollect me:
Who else has such a beloved, [so aloof]? What a shame!
He observes my sickly heart, but never does he ask,
“What ever happened to that one who was infirm?” What a shame!
One-hundred times I've been to the threshold of his intimacy—
not once did he acquiesce to grant me audience, what a shame!
To this heart of mine from lamenting for his distance
arrives a [different] sorrow every moment, what a shame!
Without your face, my days have now expired;
not much more is remaining of this life—what a shame!
Of ‘Iraqi he doesn't inquire, until [‘Iragi] dies.
‘Thereupon says the World, “He's died. Yes, what a shame!”
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