He took my head and mustache in his hand from that direction

Why should my head not be filled with wind, intoxicated with such fortune?

Every moment and every hour, to the blindness of awareness

I drink a hundred ratls without a cup or instrument

The birds of the air, the divine falcons

I bring from the unseen without craft or trickery

Wondrous birds grow from the palm of my hand

Wine gushes from my lips in the intoxication of that state

That seed of Adam that is from his hyacinth

I would sell paradise and place paradise upon my soul