I taught the candle to burn openly,
While I myself burned unseen by the world’s eye. 1670
At last flames breathed from every hair of me,
Fire dropped from the veins of my thought:
My nightingale picked up the spark-grains
And created a fire-tempered song.
Is the breast of this age without a heart? 1675
Majnún trembles lest Lailá’s howdah be empty.
It is not easy for the candle to throb alone:
Ah, is there no moth worthy of me?