غزل شمارهٔ 2845

My idol scolds, saying, “Why have you fallen in the middle of the road?” Idol, why should I not fall from such a wine as you have given me?

Idol, I fell in suchwise that even at the resurrection I shall not rise, when you held such a cup and uncovered such a flask.

I am dissolute, yet I have a little understanding, for you took up my head and placed it in your bosom.

Idol, from your drunken eye which is the wine-holder of love, you give wine without a cup—what a mighty master you are!

It is of your generosity, too, that the wine has swept away my reason, for if it still kept its reason, it should burst with happiness.

You gave me a bowl so that I am clapping my hands, for with one cup I escaped from one thousand undesirable things.

By your two ravishing drunken eyes from which joy was born, you are the primal spirit, for you were not born of any man.