Classic Poem

I am that wastrel called a Kalandar,
I have no home, no country, and no lair,
By day I wander aimless o'er the earth,
And when night falls my pillow is a stone.

What blundering moth in all the world like me?
What madman like me in the universe?
The very serpents and the ants have nests,
But I—poor wretch—no ruin shelters me.

He who has suffered grief knows well its cry,
As knows the crucible when gold is pure;
Come then ye Burnt-in-Heart, chaunt we laments,
For well we know what 'tis to Burn-in-Heart.

O Burnt-in-Heart, come ye and mourn with me,
Mourn we the flight of that most lovely Rose;
Hie we with the ecstatic nightingale to the rose-garden,
And when she ceases mourning, we will mourn.

The meadow of my thought grows naught save grief,
My garden bears no flower save that of woe;
So arid is the desert of my heart,
Not even the herbage of despair grows there.

Art thou a lion or leopard, O heart, O heart,
That thou warrest ever with me, O heart, O heart,
Fall thou into my hands; I'll spill thy blood,
To see what color it is, O heart, O heart!