She said, “O Jamil, my soul’s repose,
Thy touch is the flame by which my spirit knows.

Thy hands—so gentle, like petals in spring—
Their warmth is the hush that makes my heart sing.

Thy lips, O’ ruby vessels of desire,
Do burn with thirst, yet breathe with tender fire.

They press to mine in silence deep and blessed—
A storm divine, by sacred calm caressed.

Thine eyes—twin stars in midnight’s velvet dome
In every glance, they call my spirit home.

No word thou speak’st, yet all my soul they stir;
Thy silence sweeter than a minstrel’s lyre.

Thy company unveils life’s radiant grace,
And paints each moment with a softer face.

If thou wouldst let me cherish thy soul, O’ Jamil,
What joy would bloom—what bliss I would feel!

Thou art a grace no mortal hand could weave—
A gift of heaven I scarce believe.

A breath of peace, a love no fate can bend,
A flame, a shrine, my start and solemn end.

Thy nearness binds my soul in soft control—
And leaves no part of me my own, but whole.”