Oh, I desire a cup of wine from the Beloved’s own hands.
In whom can I confide this secret?
Where am I to take my grief?
I have yearned a lifetime to see the Beloved’s face;
I am a frenzied moth circling a flame,
A wild rue seed pod roasting in the fire.
See my stained cloak and this prayer-rug of hypocrisy;
Can I , one day, tear them to shreds at the tavern door?

Advertisements