In the Manner of a Ghazal

Rise, my friends, and pour me wine among the sweet basil, and let me drink to the memory of all the days that have slipped away. This wine could bring the bones of the dead back to life if a single drop of it fell on the earth from a drinker's lips. Serve it around in bowls to the companions at dawn; keep nothing back, fill the cups and the goblets to the brim. Bring the wine and take my reason in exchange; perhaps it will free me from the chains of my anxious thoughts. Drive away the darkness with a sun held in the hand of a moon-faced one, whose cheek is like a prayer niche for those who worship beauty. My soul is a ransom for that body bright as silver, even if it strikes at me with a heart as hard as stone. I lie awake while everyone sleeps in their homes, wide awake, recalling the promise of the one who sleeps and forgets. Pluck the lute strings until my neighbors' sleep takes flight, and sing my verses so the time with my companions turns sweet. I am a man who does not care however much they scold; if you wish, my critic, get up and announce it to everyone.