Number 7

The good and evil of this world mean nothing to me; the prayer beads and the infidel's belt are one and the same in my eyes. The mirror's surface clouds over with my reflection, so thick is the dust of grief that has settled on my face. Like a bubble, I have no room for a heavy cup of wine; a single goblet is enough to lift me away. I will not open my eyes to the sea's bounty, like an oyster; a single teardrop is my precious pearl. May the habit of cruelty never slip from her memory, so carry word of me to that merciless beloved. I am glad to stand among the lovers, because at the healer's gathering these blood-weeping eyes give my face its color.