O Islão bom  (X)

Al-Mu'tamid

The Physician

Pale fingers of the drowsy dawn have rent 

The garment of the night, and thou, beloved, 

Tearest the sad weeds of my discontent 

With dawn-tipped fingers. 

Wherefore I invent 

A medicine from the moisture of thy lips 

And from the roses that thy cheeks have lent, 

To cure my melancholy.