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is dead, and his numerous foes Are hushed in a breathless awe of amazed relief. The hearts of his friends are cold as the Tirah snows, And I am blind and deaf in the Grip of my Grief. My Soul has borrowed a portion of Pain from Hell. Oh, Syed Amir, my Brother and Friend, Farewell!

His women weep, but a woman's tears flow lightly. A bauble or two, or a child, can soon console. But I, who am strange to tears, lie sleepless, nightly, Feeling the Fangs of Grief in my desolate soul. I maddened myself with Churus, it could not cure me— Ransacked the Bazar, to beg at the hands of lust An hour's respite, but how was sin to allure me, Who know the beauty of Syed Amir is dust?

A little while I wander in Tribulation, In a Feud or two, or a few light loves take part, But Death will come, and this is my Consolation, Men live not long with a stricken and wounded heart. What further challenge from Fate can I hope or fear, Who mourn the ruined glory of Syed Amir?

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