The wine with its grace
purifies my grief.
When in bed, the two candlesticks
are the flames of your very eyes.
I fetch down a cloud as a pillow,
the sky I lower as my coverlet.
Bare bosom you entered my dream
(no, it’s not a dream, I said) Aphrodite
then you pull me up to dance with,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem