Beautiful Poetry

Nothing remains in the cup but two sips—
O you who set the world dancing on your two palms,
drink them... as for me, passion has folded me up,
and something like death has crept into my arms.
I have become like the oar of a boat
whose boatman, worn out, has let his hands fall slack.

To a mouth
sweeter than the cheek of the moon,
and than the clusters of enchantment,
and than the desires of a lifetime, when weariness has seeped deep into the lifetime—
oh, the sweetness of this mouth upon my mouth,
and in the arteries of my blood.