"Deir el-Ghazal" — To May

Still the mountebank slips along his ropes
over your green paths, and you wave a shawl
spun from the lilac clouds of autumn

Still the turtledove strips the lilies into baskets
upon her bed, and comes up to lean aside, facing
her window, and peers out, his face full of speech

Still the nightingale comes from the north country,
taking up loads of longing, bringing loads back,
and plucks his wing at her door, complaining

O land of my beloved, O those hills of yours,
O my holy place, O you who grieve me with beauty's utmost lure,
O you whose words are sweeter than musk —

O drunkenness glimpsed in dream, O care of my mind,
I will water you with my heart's blood, O "Deir el-Ghazal" —
what is there in me that does not take wing in you, and what is it in you?!