I spoke to the moon of what my heart can endure,
And of that which passion and hope possess.
And the moon melted from her extreme beauty,
And lay in the valley, pondering what to do.
Its disc shimmered with the light of her presence,
With jewels adorning her lips and her eyes.
I said, “O Moon, I converse with you of longing,
For there is nothing to my whispers but burning logs.”
And those are but rays of her joy,
For what do you know of her intoxication and kisses?
And what do you know when her fragrance moves me,
So that I am intoxicated seventy times over, without dispute?
My words falter in describing her beauty,
And the scales of love are unbalanced and falter.
Her gaze slaughters me openly,
From which the secrets of my heart bleed and conceal.
And her smile burns me with a fire,
Like the sun in its ascension, imploring.
Like an arrow, in the heart, whispers her voice,
And its penetration in the innermost being is relentless.
Her hands are a pure fragrance; thus I yearn,
And her lips are a fountain, from which I drink and cleanse.
As if she were nourished by wine upon her cheeks,
Or from a source of the night, she adorns her eyes.
Or with pearls, she embellishes the curves of her neck,
While stars gather at her wrists and adornments.
The heart may not lean towards the gain of pearls,
But for a beautiful maiden, the man spills forth.
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