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.