THE IMBIBERS
No residence has the lovers of face,
The broken wings and feather bird of the tulip and garden thinks not.
If you are fond of her become extinct, become moth,
Being involved in the existing world, does not suit the moth.
It is customary for the imbibers to break from the world,
The one who is not pure deserving the tavern is not.
The course of the knowledge and wisdom from the path of madness is separated,
The one who is being snared by these grains and these snares mad is not.
Become intoxicated, go out of mind, forget yourself,
For the aquainted with the friend has no way but forget.