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IBN BURD, Bashar

You pages, pour me out a potion

Pour me to drink her soft, sweet kisses

I suffer drought; its healing draught

Is drinking from her moist fresh lips.

The smiling corners of her mouth are brilliant as chamomile;

Her speech is like embroidery, a mantle with embroidery

Lodged in the core and kernel of

My heart, she is insatiable.

She said to me: 'I'll meet with you a few nights hence.'

But day and night will wear away, and nothing new will come myw ay.

She is content without me; my

Portion is sighs to gnaw a heart of steel.