The Cup.

As a hot traveller

Going through stones and sands,

Who sees clear water stir

Amid the weary lands,

Takes in his hollowed hands

The clean and lively water,

That trickles down his throat

Like laughter, like laughter,

So when you come to me

Across these parched places

And all the waste I see

Flowered with your graces,

I take between my hands

Your face like a rare cup,

Where kisses mix with laughter,

And drink and drink them up

Like water, like water.