Love brings the tiny sweat into your hair
Like stars marching in the dead of night.
From the Hindustani of Mir Taqui (eighteenth century).

INCURABLE

I desire the door-sill of my beloved
More than a king's house;
I desire the shadow of the wall where her beauty hides
More than the Delhi palaces.
Why did you wait till spring;
Were not my hands already full of red-thorned roses?
My heart is yours,
So that I know not which heart I hear sighing:
Yaquin, Yaquin, Yaquin, foolish Yaquin.
From the Hindustani of Yaquin (eighteenth century).

A POEM

Joy fills my eyes, remembering your hair, with tears,
And these tears roll and shine;
Into my thoughts are woven a dark night with raindrops
And the rolling and shining of love songs.
From the Hindustani of Mir Taqui (eighteenth century).

FARD

Ever your rose face or black curls are with Shaguil;
Because your curls are night and your face is day.
From the Hindustani of Shaguil (eighteenth century).

MORTIFICATION

Now that the wind has taught your veil to show your eyes and hair,
All the world is bowing down to your dear head;
Faith has crept away to die beside the tomb of prayer,
And men are kneeling to your hair, and God is dead.
From the Hindustani of Hatifi (eighteenth century).

FARD

A love-sick heart dies when the heart is whole,
For all the heart's health is to be sick with love.
From the Hindustani of Miyan Jagnu (eighteenth century).