An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 169
We see no friendship left in any soul — what has become of friends?
When did all loving reach its end — what has become of lovers?
The Water of Life has darkened — where is fortune-footed Khizr?
Blood has dripped from the rose's bough — what has become of the spring breeze?
No one now says a friend upheld the sacred right of friendship;
what has befallen the grateful hearts — what has become of friends?
For years no ruby has come forth from the mine of chivalry;
what has become of the shining sun, of the toil of wind and rain?
This was the city of comrades once, the dust of gentle souls;
when did all gentleness expire — what has become of the townsfolk?
They have flung the ball of grace and triumph into the field's midst;
not one horseman rides to take it up — what has become of the riders?
A hundred thousand roses bloomed, and not one bird gave voice;
what has befallen the nightingales — what has become of the thousands?
Venus strikes no sweet air — her lute, it seems, is burned to ash;
no one holds the taste for revelry — what has become of the wine-drinkers?
Hafez, no mortal knows the secrets of the Divine — be still;
of whom would you inquire what has become of the wheeling ages?