An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 209
That you should slay this weary one beneath your sword was fate's decree;
else, of your own remorseless heart, there was no fault or blame at all.
I, the poor madman, when I let your falling tress slip free again,
found nothing fitter for my case than the round fetter of the chain.
O Lord, what precious gem is set within this mirror of pure beauty,
that in its face my deepest sigh could work no power, could leave no mark?
Out of pure longing and regret I lifted up my head to the taverns,
for in the cloister there was not one Elder who had known your face.
More delicate than your fair form no grace grew ever in the mead;
and sweeter than your painted image the whole world of art held none.
That I might reach your street once more, borne like the breeze upon the wind—
my only gain last night was but the lament that wailed the whole night through.
Such fire I bore from you, O flame of parting, that, just like the candle,
there was no remedy for me but my own melting into naught.
A very verse of torment was the anguish of my grief for you,
a verse whose meaning was so plain that no man needed gloss or note.