Before you are made drunk by the cup of death, before
the revolutions of time are full behind you, endeavor
to make a foundation here below, for you will profit
nothing by going away empty-handed.
It is Thou who disposest of the lot of the living and
of the dead. It is Thou who governest this unruly Wheel
of the Heavens. Although I am bad, I am only Thy
slave, Thou art my master. Who then is guilty here
below? Art Thou not the Creator of all?
O my King! how can such a man as I, finding himself
in the season of roses, in the midst of joyous society,
surrounded by wine, by dancers, remain a passive spectator?
Oh! to find oneself in a garden with a flask of
wine and a lute are things preferable to Paradise with
its houris and its Koocer.
See the clearness of the light, the sparkle of the wine
and of the moon, O cupbearer! See the ravishing
beauty of the rose's face, like a shining ruby, O cupbearer!
Recall nothing of what belongs to the earth
to this heart that burns like fire, throw it not to the
wind, but bring wine, O cupbearer!
O limpid wine, wine full of sheen! Fool that I am, I'd
drink thee in such quantity, that all perceiving me from
far would my identity confound with thine, and say to
me: O master wine! tell me, whence do you come?