1. My tears are a spring, though the lute is no spring,
And my ribs are a house for the pain's visitings.

2. When able, give aid, though my ribs you should break,
For the days' journey is long, and all ribs ache.

3. Go gently with me, do not hasten my cup,
For my thirst is already too much built up.

4. The nights have all woven their webs of deceit,
So the hyena of mind finds no flesh left to eat,

5. And Time drawing near adds its subtractings,
While the body's a mote blown about by the soul's flingings.

6. Five and five make ten, and ten is twice five,
And the half of the whole is the whole's jibe.

7. Bitterness feigning sweetness awhile, betrays,
For betrayal lurks, spite of vows, in man's ways.