I've known a myriad roused desires each more feverishly fraught to die for
Yet derisory are my doused fires, so miserly the fate I sigh for
Lest the assassin reck, my blood on her neck, red the tears I cry for
So with each self-exsanguinating eye, hers be the acquittal I lie for
If Adam's fall was such a disgrace, what is Arafat exalted on high for?
Tally thy alley-way's loss of face, trapping the Udhri it went awry for!
Ghalib, thy Paraclete's worse crucified, what further torment try for?
Ghalib, thy Paraclete's worse crucified, what further torment try for?
Wounds alone are the Aeon's wine, what can Jamshed's cup scry for?
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