while every foe lies in ambush for me,
and all of them send their scorpions creeping my way.

I press on to you with a keen, Indian-forged sword(1) drawn—
newly tempered(2), its crimson edge like the tresses of young maidens.

I set my hopes at your gate, in expectation of
a manifest prestige whose piercing brilliance outshines the very stars.

So accept from me a bondman in fetters, that the course of Time
may become for him a submissive slave(3) who never dares oppose him.

Deal with me as only you are wont to do,
raise my rank to a height that even Suhâ(4) cannot approach.

Cloak me in a robe woven from the fabric of your shade,
whose trailing hems surpass the dignity of the sun and moon.

Seat me in a conveyance fashioned by your generous hands,
whose chariots travel upon the highest firmament(5).

Another may come to you from a nearer land,
having safety as a companion that never abandons him;

he gains a closeness to you such as I have never enjoyed,
he attains while I, who seek the same, do not.

He casts a single glance at the pearly radiance of your sanctity,
then returns with the imamic light(6) as his escort.

Had he surpassed me in soul, in rank,
or in the truth of devotion—areas in which I do not concede him superiority—

I would have consoled the soul for what it yearns for,
and turned the eye away from what it watches so intently.

But he is my equal; and were I to claim that I excel him,
no critic would find fault with the claim.

I am not of those whose eye is sated by wealth,
nor can his aims be fulfilled by anything short of intimate nearness.

Nor will he be pleased with less than its equal,
even if his mounts were shod with the brightest stars.

Within me is a thirst that only the sight of you can slake,
and it is little wonder that its draughts should run so pure.