I don't need wine, I'm free from pain and clear, thirsty for my own blood, the time for battle has come.
Draw the sharp sword, spill the blood of the envious, so the headless body circles around its own body.
Make mountains from skulls, seas from our blood, so the earth and sand drink the blood in excess.
O you who know my heart, don't silence my mouth, or else my heart will split and blood will gush from the crack.
Don't listen to the clamor, don't fear anything, sovereignty and heroism are not woven by such hands.
I go into the heart of the fire, become a morsel of fire, like a matchstick, where was its navel cut?
Fire is our child, thirsty and bound by us, we both become one so there is no discord.
Why does it drip and smoke? Because duality remains, when its wood is consumed, there is no dripping from boasting.
If it leaps half-burned, it is still charcoal, thirsty-hearted and black-faced, seeking union and marriage.
The fire says, "Go, you are black, I am white," the wood says, "You are burnt, I am exempt."
Neither this side nor that side shows its face, it has secluded itself in blackness between two friends.
Like a stranger Muslim, neither a path to his people nor to the king, on one side like a border.
Rather like the phoenix, which surpasses all birds, it has no path to the sky, remaining on Mount Qaf.
What can I say to you, who are stuck in the sorrow of bread, bent like the letter 'L', with a heart tight like the letter 'K'.
Hey, strike that jug on the stone, O troublemaker, so I don't draw water from the stream, so I don't make a confession.
I abandon water-carrying, drown in the sea, far from war and conflict, unaware of confession.
Like pure souls silent beneath the earth, their bodies like brides, the earth upon them like a quilt.