'black dust'

Grief is hard upon me, Master, for she has left me;
The black dust has covered my pretty one.

My heart is black, for the tomb has taken my friend;
How pleasaantly would go the days if my friend were here.

I can only dream of the nature of my friend;
The flowers are dying in my heart, my breast is a fading garden.

Her breast is a sweet garden now, and her garments are gold flowers;
I am an orchard at night, for my friend has gone on a journey.

I am Majid Shah, a slave that ministers to the dead;
Abdel Qadir Gilani, even the Master, shall not save me.

Pus'hto, Afghan, 19th C.

The Garden of Bright Waters; translations by Edward Powys Mathers (online book).

I was reading a bit of this book. Saw this brief poetic piece also about the 'black dust'.