The lovely virgin has struck my heart with the arrow of a glance,
for which there is no cure.
Sometimes she wishes for a feast in the sand-hills, like a fawn whose
eyes are full of magic.
My disease preys on me; it is in my entrails: I conceal it; but its
very concealment discloses it.
She moves: I should say it was the branch of the tamarisk that waves
its branches to the southern breeze.
She approaches: I should say it was the frightened fawn, when a
calamity alarms it in the waste.
She walks away: I should say her face was truly the sun when its
luster dazzles the beholders.
She gazes: I should say it was the full moon of the night when Orion
girds it with stars.
She smiles: and the pearls of her teeth sparkle, in which there is the
cure for the sickness of lovers.
She prostrates herself in reverence towards her God; and the greatest
of men bow down to her beauties.
O Abla! when I most despair, love for thee and all its weaknesses are
my only hope!