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From his ivory bed
The king rises at night—
Alone, without guard or escort,
Makes his way to the ancient wall
Climbing to the top of the highest tower.
There, at the window
One can see the dead, gray…
The fire of joy in solitude. . . And since in vain I have made this journey,The ground giving way to my burning steps,Let me embrace this ardorIn abstract revelry* * *
With his asses, male and female,
His woolly sheep and billy goats,
His oxen and his camels
Bearing wineskins on their backs,
With his wives and his handmaids,
His servants and his…