Circulate the cup. Take me out of who I am and what I have done, my name and my shame.
You who pour the wine, keep after me. Trick me. When I have none of your joy, I worry about everything. Lay your traps.
I should fast. Someone who fasts visits the friend at night.
But more often I come in the front door, and you fly through the roof. Be more patient.
Muslims, what is there to do? I am burning up and yet unsatisfied.
There is no cure
but the taste of what the saints pass around.
The story of lovers has no end, so we will be happy with this, just this, Goodbye.
And the answer to Mutanabbi’s riddle is, Someone whom no wine consoles.