There

Between the jaws of the clouds a moon slipped away — it drew on its veil and disappeared.
He was the bosom friend of my ailment and my longing; I complained to him of ills that break loose and stumble.
He listens as though he were a refuge of healing, as though in his own maladies there were secrets,
As though he had tasted bitterness before us, till he became for us a helper and a shrine.
None knows the buried pain by its sting but he who has met with torment time and again.
The boughs embraced nothing but their bark, yet in embracing it they kept company with fruit.
In vain does a rich man, his wealth abounding, bestow upon the wretched pauper what he chooses.
Each has sung his ode upon the pipe — woe to him who does not blow the pipe.
Hope has failed: where is the companion of the evening, its son? A complaint that, for all its faults, contends.
Where is fidelity, child of meeting, child of night journeys? Where is the spring that sets the blossoms alight?
I had a hope by whose nearness I was enamored; today no hope brings that nearness back.
Behind the clouds its lights have hidden themselves — how can the clouds make lights vanish?
O darkness of the pitch-black night, break into grief, wailing for a son who was a beacon within you.
Rise, strike the spheres until they give him back, a radiant light, an emblem against error.
I have come to weep my solitude in despair — alas for my soul, that the mighty one is laid low.
These clouds, their chains and their soldiers, are an ill omen upon us, oppressing those who keep the night.
If it be said to me: these clouds are jewels, giving the earth an abounding spring,
Or said to me: this is the champion of a nation — I would answer them: ... boycott the champions.
Were the lute strings among its aims, I would swear that I would cut the strings;
Or were the garden of poetry among its portions, I would leave my soul to scatter its verses;
Or were men's livelihood among its bounties — by my oath, I would love it even to my harm.
For there I buried the desires of my quest, and there is an eye that does not see the wicked.
What is the pleasure of abundant living but wishes in the soul that weary of life's dust?
Light reflects its radiance in the daytime, and night enfolds moons within the gloom.