An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 131
Come — the Turk of the wheeling sphere has sacked the table of the fast,
and the crescent of the feast gives its sign around the passing cup.
The merit of the fast, the pilgrimage that Heaven deigns to take,
is borne away by him who sought the tavern's holy dust of love.
Our first and truest dwelling is that corner of the tavern kept apart;
God grant His good to him who laid the stones and raised it up.
What buys the ruby-coloured wine? The very jewel of the mind.
Come then — the profit falls to him alone who dealt in such a trade.
Prayer within the arching niche of those two altar-brows
is his alone who made his cleansing in the heart's own streaming blood.
Alas that the wanton narcissus-eye of the city's shaikh today
turned on the drinkers of the dregs a glance of naked scorn.
Look on the Friend's fair face, and to your eye be evermore in debt,
for the eye's one labour, its long gaze, has done the work of sight.
Hear the discourse of love from Hafez, never from the preacher's mouth,
though he wove much cunning artifice into his turns of phrase.