1. O Nasīm, has reconciliation any place to pitch its tent with you,

    so that a phantom might visit—or you might waft this way, Nasīm?

  2. Gray hair stands between us—it is death concealed—

    and estrangement—it is a separation kept secret.

  3. Between me and the wine—like her bubbles—are

    tears strung like beads upon her cheeks.

Sol 6.1