He praises the deep wound of my heart with cries of 'bravo', and remembers me wherever he sees salt.

Here, the poet plays on the timeless idiom of rubbing salt into an open wound with a brilliant touch of bittersweet irony. The beloved's cruelty is so habitual that salt itself has become a direct reminder of the lover's suffering, as if its only purpose in the world is to sting those raw cuts. It is both heartbreaking and darkly humorous—even when remembered, the lover exists only as an agonizing spectacle for the beloved's entertainment.