He adores wine and beauty and love because they taste
Like the lips of the sweet talking wine boy, and it cannot
Be given up because his heart bleeds if the sticky tongues
That has become his habit are ripped from him.
I am no great Persian poet, but I feel like I may be drunk
Sipping from the cups of your open mouthed kiss
A drink that pools in slow languid rivers in my blood,
Feeds a fire that keeps me warm enough to flush
With the shyness at the memory of the first taste of wine,
So my eyes flutter shut to savour what is truly divine
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