Number 23

Cupbearer, in your kindness fill this clear cup: that holy spirit, that exalted soul. The day you pour a cup for some final end, spare a single sip for that handsome preacher too. If you want the atoms of the world to dance for you, let those curling, cross-shaped locks scatter loose in the dance. Adviser, go and sit down, stop reciting so many tales: this fever of longing cannot be driven from my head. You said: lose yourself, so you may find the way to yourself. I cannot decipher this riddle, this mystery. Each time I died, I carried away a hundred other lives: no one can count the miracles of the Messiah. Qasem will never fall in love for his own desire; but what can be said of the one who owns all hearts?