I went to the healer of souls and said, "Look at my hand; I am both heartless and sick, yet also in love and intoxicated."
I have a hundred kinds of ailments; I wish there was only one. Despite all these conditions, I am bound to this tale.
He said, "You are not a man." I replied, "Yes, but when your scent came to me, I emerged from the grave."
That spiritual form, that divine eastern light, and that Joseph of Canaan, from whom I wounded my own hand.
He came to me gently, touched my heart, and asked, "Why are you in this state?" I said, "Because of this hand."
When I was making a commotion, I drank wine and ate. My pale face lit up, and I was freed from the uproar.
Then I took off my clothes, acted madly drunk, and sat among those intoxicated ones on the right side.
I drank a hundred cups, boiled in a hundred ways, spilled a hundred bowls, and broke a hundred jugs.
Those people worshiped the golden calf; if I do not worship love, my calf is a wolf.
Again, the spiritual king secretly calls me, lifting me up royally from this lowliness.
I am bound to you, my dear, intoxicated by you, my dear, in your hands, my dear, whether I am an arrow or a bow.
I am agile if you are agile, intoxicated if you are intoxicated, lowly if you are lowly, existent if you are existent.
You spun me around in the sky, made me drunk with yourself. As you sealed the wine jar, I too sealed my mouth.