Alas! Those wretched Poets
Who have mistaken in the Elements of Poetry.
With the Cypress tree they
Compare the strong figure of Lover
And compare the face of Beloved with the Moon.
Yet Moon is but an incomplete object
And Cypress is nothing but a piece of wood.
Your name is my chanting-wreath.
Your name stirs me up.
In the touch of your words,
I blaze, blinking like a Lamp.
The ruby button on your velvet robe
That glistens in red luminescence
Is nothing but the drop of my blood.
If by striking someone like me with Death
Your mind gets pleasure,
Even then, I would be grateful.
I only fear that then
Your sword would be scandalized
In blood of Scandal.