Anacreon, old poet of wine and starlight,
sing through the dark where the muses still burn;
lift up the bowl till the sky leans to listen,
drown every sorrow, let memory return.
Laugh at the thunder, make love to the morning,
carve your brief name in the foam of the sea;
though cities may crumble and gods go wandering,
your song is a ember that sings still in me.