O People

O people, do not complain of the injury,

nor prolong your wailing over it —

had you not been wounded by your own hands,

we would have bound up your wounds.

You yourselves picked the men who rule you

and awaited your well-being through them,

and behold, they drape your sash

over the baseness of their world.

How many times they broke their pledges to you

and drank, with your consent, your wine —

does your breast run with the wounds they gave,

and still you hand them your weapon?

Had you not known them, excuse

would go begging your pardon!

* * *

My grief for you! Is it thus

you fold your wing over humiliation?

Had you not given away your love — the heights

of life — it would never have violated you.

A Woman

Have you disowned me? The fragrance of love

and its glow still linger on my bleeding lips.

Is it thus that what was between us dissolves,

and the bliss of my days comes to an end?

How often I walked in your track while you

took no notice, the road brimming with my dreams;

and how often you turned to look — and how long

you knew me by the fall of my footsteps.

* * *

You passed me by today, and not one smile

from you — for my purity, or for my sins!