TOAST

There are two fresh roses here, wet of dew:
a white one, another red one, as your love and mine.
And there am here that, slowly, the two roses defoliate:
the red one, in white wine; the white one, in red wine.

When drinking, drop to drop, the floating petals
they will touch my lips, as lover's lips;
and, in their flame or their snow of identical destination,
they will be as ghosts of kisses in the wine.

Now, you choose, friend, which your glass must be:
if this that is as a dawn, or that, as a decline.
Don't wonder anything: I know well that it is better
to be intoxicated of wine that to be intoxicated of love...

And this way while you drink, smiling - this way,
me, without you know it, I will intoxicate myself of you...

JAB