Consumed with Passion
What say roses when they see you:
Are we fragrant? 'tis the moonlight?
The poor nightingale is baffled,
Stops the song that it is singing,
Like a lad consumed with passion,
Does it see you or the roses?
For your breast emits their fragrance
And your cheeks their hue resemble.
Like the hyacinth your hair coils,
You've the fairness of this garden,
Thus the nightingale's not baffled
If he leaves the rose to court you,
Sings your red lips, saffron-tasting,
Sings your forehead ever shining,
Sings your tender, braid-like eyebrows,
Radiant eyes and arrow lashes,
Sings your fair nape and your shoulders,
Sings your limbs all silver shining,
Sings your breast and those two cupfuls
Which the whole world dares not mention.
For the love which you have hidden
Like the twilight after darkness,
Seeing all these things, Naibi
Will not fail to sing your praises.
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