|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,
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 !
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