To her who inspired me when she lisped and said: I am from “Bghana”

In Broummana

rumors they have told of our love —

whispers among the flowers of the hills

of enchantment, sweet scents, and young passion;

they lulled a grieving heart

and stirred in it longing and yearning.

The lily leaned toward the jasmine,

asking: who is that enchantress

who toys with poets’ souls?

And it answered: all I know of her

is that my perfume came... from her.

•

In Broummana

rumors and whispers of our love.

The bird told the sparrows of the thicket

of a mouth that pours out lovely tunes,

sugar welling from its kisses,

the whole world doting on its lisp.

Who can she be?

•

The bulbul asked the nightingale about her —

she who spreads rapture and beguiles hearts —

and he answered: all I know of her

is that my voice came... from her.

•

In Broummana

rumors and whispers and questioning about our love.

By the lovelorn brook they called to one another,

the procession of gazelles, in troops and one by one.

The procession had heard of a straying doe

who breathes lightness into a new dress,

sweet, coquettish, swaying with charm,

filling her air with lawful magic.

They ask one another: who is this gazelle

to whose eyes, when she wills, nothing is impossible?

Who can she be?

She sets the poet aflame with love and fancy,

and he sings to her in submission and obedience.

And I answer: all I know of her

is that my inspiration came... from her.