Crying, ‘Have pity upon me, O most sweet!
Do with me as you will, and let me die.’
PRAISE OF WINE.
Once again the ruddy vintage storms the chambers of my brain,
Steals my senses with its kisses, steals and yet shall steal again;
But I do not blame the grape’s blood for the vengeances it wreaks
When it plants its purple standard on the stronghold of my cheeks.
May Allah confer his blessing on the hands that pluck the grape,