In this castle which by its splendor rivals the heavens,
this castle to which sovereigns succeeded with delight, we
have seen a turtledove seated on the ruined battlements
crying: Kou, kou, kou, kou [Where? Where?].
What advantage has our coming into this world produced?
What advantage will result from our departure?
What remains to us of the heap of hopes that we have
conceived. Where is the smoke of all the pure men who
under the celestial fire have been consumed and become
dust?
O Thou whose lips secrete the water of life, permit
not those of the cup to come and kiss them! [Oh, if
Thou shouldst permit it], may I lose the name of man
if I am not soaked in the blood of the flask, for what is
it, this cup, to dare to touch its lips to Thine?
I am such as Thy power has made me. I have lived a
hundred years filled with Thy benevolence and benefits.
I would like still a hundred years to commit sin and to
see if the sum of my faults outweighed Thy pity.
Now take thy cup, carry away the gourd, O Charm of
my Heart! and go, explore the plains, the borders of
the brooks, for indeed idols, like to the moon in the light
of their beautiful countenances, have a hundred times
been transformed into cups, a hundred times have they
become gourds.