this cry! Greet him with empty hands, lead him into thy rooms
all bare!'

Open the doors, let the conch-shells be sounded! in the depth of
the night has come the king of our dark, dreary house. The
thunder roars in the sky. The darkness shudders with lightning.
Bring out thy tattered piece of mat and spread it in the
courtyard. With the storm has come of a sudden our king of the
fearful night.


I thought I should ask of thee--but I dared not--the rose wreath
thou hadst on thy neck. Thus I waited for the morning, when thou
didst depart, to find a few fragments on the bed. And like a
beggar I searched in the dawn only for a stray petal or two.

Ah me, what is it I find? What token left of thy love? It is no
flower, no spices, no vase of perfumed water. It is thy mighty
sword, flashing as a flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. The
young light of morning comes through the window and spreads itself
upon thy bed. The morning bird twitters and asks, 'Woman, what
hast thou got?' No, it is no flower, nor spices, nor vase of
perfumed water--it is thy dreadful sword.

I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of thine. I can find
no place to hide it. I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and
it hurts me when I press it to my bosom. Yet shall I bear in my
heart this honour of the burden of pain, this gift of thine.

From now there shall be no fear left for me in this world, and