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,
young for ever, vertical and horizontal;
in the end you award me a price,
the fragrant juice of your beauty,
to get me drunk on your other table.
Let it go, let this world pass and go,
all sensible but ignorant men, who live on
vinegar and dry bread holding a compass;
let us dream alone what they cannot.
Here, a jar of pure wine of love
opens wide the gate of the space,
and the spout to flow chaste honey
and purling water, a life transparent,
which the others cannot discover
in the vaporous glory of their life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.