Come, let us like the flute bewail, and moan, and plaintive sigh!
The notes of mourning and of dole aloud let us rehearse;
And let all those who grieve be moved by this our seven-fold verse.
Will earth's King ne'er awake from sleep?—broke hath the dawn of day:
Will ne'er he move forth from his tent, adorned as heaven's display?
Long have our eyes dwelt on the road, and yet no news hath come
From yonder land, the threshold of his majesty's array:
The color of his cheek hath paled, dry-lipped he lieth there,
E'en like that rose which from the vase of flowers hath fall'n away.
Goes now the Khusrev of the skies behind the cloudy veil,