The stones of Najd are thirsty for the rain But I am thirstier for a syllable of your name I was a prince of verses, a son of ancient pride Until the moon of your face pushed the stars aside Now the tribe calls me "Stranger," they bar the heavy door But I don't need their ceilings or their carpets on the floor Iβve traded my silk for the dust of the track And Iβm walking toward the sun with the night on my back. Oh, LaylaβI am lost in the light of the dark The man who walked into the fire just to find a spark They call me Majnun, the one the spirits claimed But Iβm just a vessel where your memory is flamed Every grain of sand is a word I never said I am the living ghost of the desert of the dead. I share my bread with the wolves and the shy gazelle For in their golden eyes, I see your shadow dwell They offer me water, they offer me wine But I only drink the air where your fragrance was divine Iβve written your name on the ribs of the wind A prayer for a saint and a debt for a sin My fingers are inkless, my parchment is the floor I donβt know who Qays isβnot anymore. Is this madness, or is it finally sight? To see you in the noon-glare and the hollow of the night If they tore open my chest, theyβd find no heart of bone Just a garden of thorns where your image has grown Am I the lover? Or the love? The mirror is thin Where does the desert end and the beloved begin? Oh, LaylaβI am lost in the light of the dark The man who walked into the fire just to find a spark They call me Majnun, the one the spirits claimed But Iβm just a vessel where your memory is flamed Every grain of sand is a word I never said I am the living ghost of the desert of the dead. Layla... Layla... The wind is chanting it now. The mountain is leaning in to hear. Iβm not coming home. I am the home.
