You who let a garden go for the sake of a small fig, let slip the houri for the sake of an unworthy crone.
I am rending my shirt, and repulsion comes over me from the glance that a crone cast at a youth.
A stinking-mouthed crone with a hundred clutching talons and tricks, putting her head down from the roof to snare a clever one.
Who is such a crone? A savorless deception, fold on fold like an onion, fetid as garlic.
A prince has become her captive, pledged his belt—she laughs in secret, “Fool of a princeling!”
No fresh blossom in the garden of her beauty, no milk in the breasts of fidelity of that whore.
When death opens your eyes, then you will behold her, her face like the back of a lizard, her body black as pitch.
No, be silent, give no more counsel. The master’s bond is very strong; the chain of his love draws without the help of a miserable chain.
