1. Cease blame, for the eye finds no rest
In the evening, though to it belongs the bed.

2. Or the cup mixes its pure draught for me
With cool sweet water fresh and limpid.

3. Passion has captured my sober mind,
My glances sleep to be caressed by languor.

4. Leave the rose to the lion with angry growl,
The roe-deer of the meadows turns lion.

5. The roe-deer's heart has become its pasture,
Though my tears for it are sources of water.

6. Slender are the pages of its cheeks,
But its entrails are hard as rock.

7. It rises, rending its sleeves,
With a face that is the happiest rising star,

8. It is clothed in the clouds' garment,
While dew drops gleam on its coat.

9. O my friends, we are thrown to the wild,
Do not abandon nearness for farness,

10. If you are not generous with union,
Then fulfil the promise at least.

11. O would that you excused my passion
Because of a visit though far off.

12. Maybe the cup will follow its redness
With a whiteness that heals their blackness.