"These words are from her whom melancholy destroys and whom
watching hath wasted; in her darkness there are no lights found,
and she knows not night from day. She tosses from side to side on
the couch of separation and her eyes are blackened with the
pencils of sleeplessness; she watches the stars and strains her
sight into the darkness: verily, sadness and emaciation have
consumed her and the setting forth of her case would be long. No
helper hath she but tears and she reciteth the following verses:
"No turtle warbles on the branch, before the break of morn, But
stirs in me a killing grief, a sadness all forlorn.
No lover, longing for his loves, complaineth of desire, But with
a doubled stress of woe my heart is overborne.
Of passion I complain to one who hath no ruth on me. How soul and
body by desire are, one from other, torn!"
Then her eyes brimmed over with tears, and she wrote these verses
also:
"Love-longing, the day of our parting, my body with mourning
smote, And severance from my eyelids hath made sleep far
remote.
I am so wasted for yearning and worn for sickness and woe, That,
were it not for my speaking, thou'dst scarce my presence
note."
Then she wept and wrote at the foot of the scroll, "This is from
her who is far from her people and her native land, the
sorrowful-hearted Nuzhet ez Zeman.
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