A ghazal, written by my own hand
O morning breeze, do not tease us, we already sit wounded by their hand. O Creator, in Your world we sit, lost from our own selves.
Let some passer-by ask the keepers of the garden now: those flowers that once bloomed, why are they sitting withered today?
Those who once called us their own, why have they forgotten the promises, for whose sake we still sit, with pearls adorning our lashes?
The memory of joy will never fade from this grieving heart, Hamdan; for its sake we have laughingly forgotten every sorrow we hold.

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