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.