This is my hand, extended as an invitation,
That you may cross from your sorrow to my joy.
The paths of life have narrowed from your departure,
And separation hides your tears in my eyes.
My beloved children, do not make me taste separation.
Who else but you adorn my awakening?
Have you not seen my gray hairs vying with my temples,
And my cheeks ravaged by the shards of my tears?
Have you not seen my slow, weary gait,
And my chest heaving when my sighs rise?
Return to a bosom you will never find the like of,
Unless you come to the gardens of my paradise.
My only dream is to see your children,
And for my tent to resound with cries.
All the desired cries are silent,
And silence is an illusion that may prolong my scream.
My house is enraged by the dust of their absence,
And my love shrinks away without them.
Your children are my soul and the hopes of my tomorrow,
And my joy if you whisper: O my grandmother,
Do not deprive me of my Creator's gifts,
Do not imprison me in the mirrors of my loneliness.
They are my right and my left, and my hope.
They are my eyes and the comfort of my gaze.
I have placed their images on my hand,
So that my pillow may drink of their fragrance,
And my sheets may flourish with their shade,
And my fingertips and my kiss may be intoxicated.
It does not matter to me if an image disturbs my sleep,
For God sleeps in the corners of my room.
**
