I am a dreamer who is mute,
And the people are deaf.
I am unable to say,
And they are unable to hear.
I doubt my doubt, doubt itself is unsure
I love, but who is it for whom I sigh?
Not Muslim, not yet heathen; who am I?
Drinking wine is my travail,
Till my body is dead and stale,
At my grave site all shall hail,
Odour of wine shall prevail.
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