The world its Ramadan will end,
The lover's Id,
The feast of love, O call him, friend!
For love is Id.

But love has melted me like snow,
A waterfall,
As restless as the summer streams
I sleepless go!

O, call him gently, friend, O call!
With wreaths and dreams
I carry wine to Dara's peaks'
The world below.

And yet he roams in distant vales,
New wine he seeks!
If he comes not, the jasmine pales,
And I, and all!