Chapter XXXIV

Where has my childhood gone, where are its placid years? For cruel youth hath brought passion and bitter tears.

To the Creator now I from the dust complain-- Beauty, the thing he made, brings with it only pain.

Long I desired and dreamed, waiting with eager breath, But ere she came to me, Fate sent the sleep of Death.

To God as servitor I my devotion gave, Now Love hath taken me, bound me to be his slave.

I, Muztar, die with grief, yearning unsatisfied, Still hangs the purdah's fold I cannot draw aside, Nor lift the needless veil woven of shame and pride.

MUZTAR.