غزل شمارهٔ 11

Drunk with self hood like a wave plunge into the stormy lave; who commanded thee to sit with thy skirts about thy feet?

Let the tiger be thy prey; leave the mead and flowers gay, out toward the mountain press, tent thee in the wilderness.

Cast thy strangling rope on high, circle sun and moon in sky, seize a star from heaven’s sphere, stitch it on thy sleeve to wear.

Selfhood’s wine, as I have guessed, tart and bitter is to taste, yet regard thy pain within – drain our desperate medicine.