The sand has become satiated with the water; I have not become, bravo! No string in this world is there to fit my long bow.
The sea is my least draft, the mountain my least morsel; what a leviathan I am. O God! Open for me a way.
I am more thirsty than death, I writhe like hell; is not any good fat morsel coming to me, I wonder?
The lean one of love has no remedy but union; none is there but your hand to feed grass to the mouth of love.
Reason enters your trap and loses both head and beard, though it be heavy-headed or swift to leap.
You are the implanter of sincerity in the heart of every unitarian; you likewise print images in the heart of every anthropomorphist.
Noah from the zenith of your wave becomes mate of a raft; spirit from the scent of your street is drunk and dissolute and distraught.
Be silent, and return to the palace of the silent ones; you, cast in a village, return to the city of love.
