For your eyes is what the heart meets and what it has found, and for love is what is not left of me and what is left, and I was not one of those whose heart love enters, but whoever sees your eyelids falls in love, I tempt you from me, that your love is my killer, and that whatever you command the heart does to your desires, as long as you live the heart, if I die, it follows my echo in the grave, you are the bliss for my heart and the torment for it. What's wrong with you in my heart, what's wrong with you, what's wrong with you? It is strange that lovers die in passion, but the survival of lovers is strange. My passion for you has crept into my heart, the blood of life creeping into my veins, my friend while you lived. Have you ever seen a dead person who cried for the love he killed before me? If my heart had been with me, I would not have chosen anyone other than you, nor would I have accepted anyone but you in my passion instead. I wish this love could only be loved once. He knows what abandonment the lover will encounter. Your eyes are descending from the hearts, for all of them are either wounded or killed, and I love to sleep when it is not the right time. Perhaps a meeting in a dream would take place, and were it not for passion, no lover would be humiliated on earth, but the dear of lovers is humiliated