Satan, O god of evil! You are indeed a poet.
Often have I envied your poetic flair.
You, who have created countless poems, are the true bard,
I, who have suffered many regrets, am the one oblivious.
"Love" and "gamble" are not God's poems, they are yours.
Such poetry is irresistible to all--all except
God, who would have neither, for no one remains
pious in "love" and in "gamble."
"Woman" with all her allure--your poetry!
"Woman" in her passionate creation--your verse!
"Wine" and "songs" are not to God's taste:
He forbad one to drink, and the other to hear.
You impart joy into kisses and glances,
you infuse delight into drunkenness and sin.
To those not enticed by God's afterlife Heaven,
you have flung open the gates to an earthly paradise.
For all your poems God made only one,
but it's His masterpiece, His manifest miracle.
God's poem is <i>misery</i>--heart-filling,
satisfying sadness, and no more.
I know the poems you composed and He did not
--unless He penned others in someone else's name--yet,
if they place you and Him side by side,
which would you yourself prefer, tell me which?