1. The sun is pale-faced, sickly,
The wind flutters its wings in the night,

2. Lightning scowls and turns its face,
As the soul of comfort dies by its hand.

3. The goblet has a blond rim that glimmers
With beads of sweat rolling down.

4. The moon pursues it, for the cup and its face
Are most tender, its smile sweetened.

5. My friend complains of its sword and edge,
A spear, deaf and unsheathed.

6. A brother whose stately height sways,
As though he were fragrant basil.

7. I suckled at the wine’s cup ‘twixt us
A garden bloomed in the paradise of talk.

8. The inclination of his genteel sides seems
A branch breathing light set free.

9. The petals of his palm distill dew,
The belly of his right hand overflowing.

10. Serene of brow, his sword smiles,
Fateful, languorous, withering in its sheath.

11. In him, people find eloquent testaments,
And in the strike of his sword, remnants.

12. With his palm he quenches the souls of warriors,
A torrent pouring out the valleys.

13. Where the whinny of the piercing blades sounds,
Sheltered, and in the shade of banners, rest.

14. The plain turns red for the spears on its face,
Temptations glisten, swords blaze.

15. Horses inscribe occult letters with their tongues,
Encrypted by the tongues of mountain gazelles.