An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 110
In my grey years the love of a youth fell upon my head,
and the secret I had hidden in my heart spilled out.
By the road of the eye my heart's bird took to the air;
O eye, look well — into whose snare has it dropped?
Alas, that from that musk-scented, dark-eyed gazelle,
like the musk-pod, my liver has filled with heart's-blood.
From the passing dust at the head of your street it came —
each musk-pod that fell to the hand of the dawn breeze.
Since your lashes drew forth their world-conquering blade,
how many slain, still-living hearts have heaped on one another!
Much have we tried it, in this hall of retribution:
whoever fell in with the dreg-drinkers was undone.
Though the black stone give up its soul, it turns no ruby;
what can it do — born ill-gemmed, that is its native clay.
Hafez, whose hand once toyed with the tress-tips of idols —
a strange companion this, that has now fallen to his head.