But I must lie and rot, to boot, in prison strait and dour, Where
nought but gnawing of my hands I have for help and stay,
And tears that shower in torrents down, as from the rain-charged
clouds, And fire of yearning, never quenched, that rages
night and day,
And memory and longing pain and melancholy thought And sobs and
sighs and groans and cries of "Woe!" and "Wellaway!"
Passion and soul-destroying grief I suffer, and unto Desire, that
knoweth not relent nor end, am fallen a prey.
No kindly soul is found to have compassion on my case And with
his visits and his grace my misery allay.
Lives there a true and tender friend, who doth compassionate My
sickness and my long unrest, that unto him I may
Make moan of all that I endure for dole and drearihead And of my
sleepless eyes, oppressed of wakefulness alway?
My night in torments is prolonged; I burn, without reprieve, In
flames of heart-consuming care that rage in me for aye.
The bug and flea do drink my blood, even as one drinks of wine,
Poured by the hand of damask-lipped and slender-waisted may.
The body of me, amongst the lice, is as an orphan's good, That in
an unjust Cadi's hands doth dwindle and decay.
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