1. By my father who wrote with his hands I send my greetings
And clothed speech with the drowsiness of eyelids

2. And I see his virtues on his words
And the tears of his eyes on the title

3. As if his tongue was keeping watch over it
And his ink was from the inner depths of passion

4. So his book is with me and my poems are with him
The cooing of the beloved and the sigh of bereavement