““Sick of body, unable to rise up, vehemently intoxicated without wine . . . And it is as though she who visits me were filled with modesty, For she does not pay her visits save under cover of darkness, I freely offered her my linen and my pillows, But she refused them, and spent the night in my bones. My skin is too contracted to contain both my breath and her, So she relaxes it with all sorts of sickness. When she leaves me, she washes me As though we had retired apart for some forbidden action. It is as though the morning drives her away, And her lachrymal ducts are flooded in their four channels. I watch for her time without desire, Yet with the watchfulness of the eager lover. And she is ever faithful to her appointed time, but faithfulness is an evil When it casts thee into grievous sufferings.””
