I took leave of my beloved one evening: how I wish
I had rather tasted death than been away from him!
I find that even the sun complains of love for him,
And the doves weep with the pain of loving him:
The evenings seem so feeble after he has left,
As if they also felt the pain of what I now suffer,
The breeze began to carry the feelings of our love,
And became soft with love, its breath grew fragrant,
The dew of the garden was mixed in the morning
With the sweet fragrance of remembrance of him,
The flowers are his mouth, the breeze his breath,
The rose has been moistened by the dew of his cheeks:
Therefore I love gardens so madly, for at all times
They make me remember the one whom I adore!