Classic Poem

The sword — is it sharpened for the blow?
Is it?
Or is it not?
Your hair — is it curled for the touch of my hands?
Is it?
Or is it not?
Then why say to me: " Look not at my fair face!"
My eyes — did Allah create them for seeing?
Did He?
Or did He not?

Let the priests fast and babble their prayers.
Let topers raise their goblets filled with wine.
Every man has been created to live his own life.
Is it so?
Or is it not?
You said: " My mouth's touch is a healing drug."
Let me drink it — to heal my heart's wound.
Will it?
Or will it not?

Your tongue sucks the marrow from my soul.
My soul is yours.
Is it?
Or is it not?
Compared to you, like weeds are the rose and tulip.
Are they?
Or are they not?

Here is sweet wine. Here golden lute and flute.
Here is my mistress. Here my desire — and her promise.
Here is the red, red garden.
Will I hasten there?
Or will I not?