Desire, a rival in every hue, possessed my all,
Qais, even in portrait's veil, stripped bare and fell.
The wound gave no praise to the heart's tight plight, O Lord,
The arrow, too, from the heart, a flurry to tell.
The rose's scent, the heart's lament, smoke from the lamp's light,
Who left your gathering, scattered and forlorn, they fell.
The heart, a prisoner of longing, craved the taste of pain,
Friends' deeds, in measure of lips and teeth, unveiled.
The novice of art, embraces hardship as their friend,
It's hard, this task, yet easy, this truth compelled.
Within the heart, tears rise again, a clamorous sound,
Alas, the drop that wouldn't fall, a storm now swelled.
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