Classic Poem

Had I control o'er her, the dear Tormentor,
Then might I rest;
I cannot govern her, nor can I master
The heart within my breast.

I cast myself upon the ground in anguish
Wounded and sore,
Yet longed to have two hearts that she might pierce them,
That I might suffer more.

Utterly from her heart hath she erased me,
No marks remain,
So there shall be no grave from which my ashes
May greet her steps again.

O cruel One, when once your glances smote me,
Why turn your head?
It were more merciful to let their arrows
Pierce me and strike me dead.

No tomb, Amir, could give my dust oblivion,
No rest was there:
And when they told her I had died of sorrow,
She did not know — nor care.