Stone cracks and breaks to dust by the hammer of breath-
by the breath of his living name that promises death.
Only when thought by pestle is crushed in mortar,
does heart drink the elixir of divine ardor.
The journey from star to granite to worm to beast
ends with man. But mind must grind back to dust at last!
A torrent of lives babbles to embrace the sea,
but without his silent name babbles ceaselessly.
I drink and drink to praise the god of single malt;
O, how I find all my skill excels despite my fault!
My hand is incited by a drunk pen and pure curve
with such verse the sober and vain lose their nerve.
Darvish’s skull groans with pain as he gasps each breath,
for the beauty of his name is the presence of death.