1. His shirt torn at the shoulders,
And from his arms to the wastrels ever generous,

2. When people prolonged their visit over cups in circles,
You'd find him still pouring though all had their fill.

3. I called him when sorrow crept into his bones,
And drenched his head till it pierced his very joints,

4. As pure wine soaks to the inner core of the drinker
Who lingers still though the first joy has declined.

5. He answered as my request his heavy tongue could hardly utter,
Drowsy with the languor born of Mercedes' toils.

6. I said: Speak up, and travel gear prepare, for this is not
A place to rest but a pausing site for travellers moving on.

7. He rose shaking his spear, and doffing his shirt,
Baring arms grown hairy and sinewy with work.