I die, and yet not dies in meThe ardour of my love for Thee,Nor hath Thy Love, my only goal,Assuaged the fever of my soul.To Thee alone my spirit cries;In Thee my whole ambition lies,And still Thy Wealth is far aboveThe poverty of my small love.I turn to Thee in my request,And seek in Thee my final rest;To Thee my loud lament is brought,Thou dwellest in my secret thought.However long my sickness be,This wearisome infirmity,Never to men will I declareThe burden Thou has made me bear.To Thee alone is manifestThe heavy labour of my breast,Else never kin nor neighbors knowThe brimming measure of my woe.A fever burns below my heartAnd ravages my every part;It hath destroyed my strength and stay,And smouldered all my soul away.Guidest Thou not upon the roadThe rider wearied by his load,Delivering from the steeps of deathThe traveller as he wandereth?Didst Thou not light a beacon tooFor them that found the Guidance trueBut carried not within their handThe faintest glimmer of its brand?O then to me Thy Favour giveThat, so attended, I may live,And overwhelm with ease from TheeThe rigor of my poverty.
ذو النون المصري, Sufism: An Account of the Mystics of Islam
islam, love, mystical-poetry, mysticism, sufism