Let them be, the battles you fought, in silence.
Bury your shame, the worst you thought, in silence.
At last my Beloved has haggled with death.
‘One more day’ was the pearl she bought in silence.
At night she heard the blacksmith hammering chains,
at dawn the saw, the fretwork wrought in silence.
‘The only wrong I’ve done is to live too long’,
my Beloved’s eyes tell the court in silence.
She’s as young as the month of Ordibehesht,
month of my birth, spring’s mid-leap caught in silence.
My Beloved, under the shade of a palm,
was the girl, the mother I sought in silence.
Loneliness is innumerate. Days slip by,
suns rise that daylight moons distort in silence.
The bell on her wrist was silent, her fingers
ice cold as the julep she brought in silence.
‘Mimijune! Mimijune!’ My Beloved’s voice
climbs three steep notes for tears to thwart in silence.
Three syllables of equal weight, equal stress,
dropped in a well, keep falling short in silence.