I die of love for him, perfect in every way,
Lost in the strains of wafting music.
My eyes are fixed upon his delightful body
And I do not wonder at his beauty.
Don't cry for Layla, don't rave about Hind!
But drink among roses a rose-red wine,
A draught that descends in the drinker's throat,
In the bath-house, the mysteries hidden by trousers
Are revealed to you.
All becomes radiantly manifest.
Feast your eyes without restraint!