If you are willing, turn me to rest, and mean
to drink from one who is kind and sympathetic
Til the glass of glass off me, you are
I dwelt, And I have not assigned you a resident
with a sick body, Whenever you answer me
into a poultice, in the chest, not sick
If death was from the generosity of desires,
not passion, if I don’t die, cream
So tell the rose breeze: About you, I
I humiliate you in homage to the face of a breeze
I regret, And the people said, How did you leave him?
So say in a reproach that is true,
Father of glory! return from your pilgrimage, I
at risk, what frightens, great
And you told me that consolation is kind,
And will anyone be comforted by him who is not mean?
So what is far between us,
Nor is the covenant between us old