I wound my heart. I give my poetry its blood to drink. A gem glistens at the bottom of the human river. Red butterflies fly. From my poetry is born a woman bearing a Shiraz moon in a wreath of braided gold. Her eyes glisten with the glow of forest honey and the sadness of eternal fire. In the night, wings sprout on her and she flies to awaken a sun asleep in the beads of pearly sweat on the brow of the lover, in the sadness of the colours hidden in paintings. A woman bearing a Shiraz moon, flying in the night, besieges my sleep, wounding my heart, giving my poetry its blood to drink. I adore her, and I see cities sunken at the bottom of the river springing from her eyes.
Abd al-Wahhab al-Bayyati, tr. F. Wahab, N. Rahman and C. Hotchandani