The road and the house love me,
the living and the dead,
and a red clay jug at home
loved by water.
The neighbor loves me,
the field, threshing floor, and fire.
Toiling arms that better
the world, love me,
and go unrewarded with joy.
And tatters of my brother scattered about,
torn from his wilted chest
hidden by wheat spikes and season,
a carnelian from which blood shies.
He was the god of love as long as I lived.
What will love do if I too am gone?