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and far from those he loved. Night ccxxix.So he called to mind his brother and his former high estate and repeated the following verses, shedding floods of tears the while:
How long wilt thou wage war on me, O Fate, and bear away My brethren from me? Hold thy hand and spare awhile, I pray!
Is it not time, O thou whose heart is as the rock, that thou My long estrangement and my dole shouldst pity and allay?
Ill hast thou wrought to those I love and made my foes exult With all that thou hast wreaked on me of ruin and dismay.
Yea, for the pains he sees me brook of exile and desire And loneliness, my foeman’s heart is solaceful and gay.
Thou’rt not content with what is fallen on me of bitter dole, Of loss of friends and swollen eyes, affliction and affray.
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.
My dwelling-place is in a tomb, three scanty cubits wide, Wherein in shackles and in bonds I languish night and day.
My tears my wine are and my chains my music: my dessert Woeworthy thought and cares the bed whereon myself I lay.
Meanwhile his brother abode, awaiting him, till mid-day, but he returned not: whereupon Amjed’s heart fluttered
