My things have stirred, O all my things,
O my refuge from the cold of old age...
Pain has drunk my blood,
And my ribs have stretched to see your awaited face.
My age is coupling with my desire,
And you have not yet come...
You have not yet fertilized the fruit of your womb
With my maturity.
O my child, slender as a palm tree,
Give me your lips...
So, I may entrust my fires to them.
**
