Number 12

With your lips, the soul becomes the prey of your hair; with your face, all that matters is the work of your hair. The spring of the sun turns toward your face; the ring of night is the earring of your hair. At the wedding feast of your beauty, reason is caught, hand and grip, in the ornament of your hair. The edge of your cheek is full of fragrance; that is not down growing there, it is the scattered gift of your hair. What can I say? Brighter than your face is the chaos your hair has stirred through all these days. You have stolen a hundred thousand hearts, and still the snare and clutch of your hair keeps counting more. On the gold of my cheek, my crimson tears have drawn a picture: this too is the handiwork of your hair. A whole world of lovers, men and women alike, longs to rest in the embrace of your hair. Since your chin is the well of Joseph, our soul is held chained in the grip of your hair.