Your love is the greatest of my sorrows.
O Beloved of My Soul Do not complain of my melancholy, Nor be troubled by my weariness, Your love is the greatest of my sorrows. Here, take my face, my hand— Read my cup and interpret for me: How do your eyes dwell within my grief? How do your doves invade me, Roaming freely in my gardens and boughs? I wake and I sleep, Yet my visions remain restless, Woven with silk of your hands, Swaying to the honey of your lips and melodies. O woman to whom I whisper my passion, My madness, and my wounds, Yet each confession to her Plunges me deeper into my dreams. O one whose brows are pharaonic, Approaching like a graceful gazelle, A sea that swallows me whole With waves of tenderness. O you whom my perfumes recognize, And from whose eyes my colors spring forth— A woman who reigns over my pages, A sultana enthroned upon my poetry. O woman who inhabits all my days, My nights, my very time itself— Do not fret over my unease, Nor the tremor in my eyes and fingers. Simply wrap me in your warmth, Brus...