(BY ALI BEN ABAD)
Sure Harut's[55] potent spells were breathed
Upon that magic sword, thine eye;
For if it wounds us thus while sheathed,
When drawn, 'tis vain its edge to fly.
How canst thou doom me, cruel fair,
Plunged in the hell[56] of scorn to groan?
No idol e'er this heart could share,
This heart has worshiped thee alone.