The secrets of her faith's theology.
A fairer child no man could hope to see-
In beauty's mansion she was like a sun
That never set . . .
The man about whose heart her ringlets curled
Became a Christian and renounced the world;
The man who saw her lips and knew defeat
Embraced the earth before her bonny feet;
And as the breeze passed through her musky hair
The men of Rome watched wondering in despair.
Her eyes spoke promises to those in love,
Their fine brows arched coquettishly above-
Those brows sent glancing messages that seemed
To offer everything her lovers dreamed.
The pupils of her eyes grew wide and smiled,
And coutless souls were glad to be beguiled;
The face beneath her curls glowed like soft fire;
Her honeyed lips provoked the world's desire;
But those who thought to feast there found her eyes
Held pointed daggers to protect the prize,
And since she kept her counsel no one knew-
Despite the claims of some- what she would do.
Her mouth was tiney as a needle's eye,
Her breath as quickening as Jesus' sigh;
Her chin was dimpled with a silver well
In which a thousand drowning Josephs fell;
A glistering jewel secured her hair in place,
Which like a veil obscured her lovely face.
The Christian turned, the dark veil was removed, . . .
In that sad instant all he had been fled
And passion's smoke obscured his heart and head.
Love sacked his heart; the girl's bewitching hair
Twined round his faith impiety's smooth snare.
Disputing with stray dogs the place before
His unattainable beloved's door.
There in the dust he knelt, till constant prayers
Made him resemble one of her dark hairs;
A patient month he waited day and night
To glimpse the radiance of her beauty's light.
At last fatigue and sorrow made him ill-
Her street became his bed and he lay still.
When she perceived he would- and could- not move,
She understood the fury of his love,
But she pretended ignorance . . .
"What is it, sheikh? Why is our street your bed?" . . .
"Accept my love or kill me now- your breath
Revives me or consigns me here to death.
Your face and curls command my life; beware
Of how the breeze displays your vagrant hair;
The sight breeds fever in me, and your deep
Hypnotic eyes induce love's restless sleep.
Love mists my eyes, love burns my heart- alone,
Impatient and unloved, I weep and groan;
See what a sack of sorrow I have sewn!"
- Faridoddin Attar, The Conference of the Birds