An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 221
Let my hand but touch the crown of her curls, and into a knot it flies;
and should I sue for peace, it wheels away to reproach.
Like the new moon, upon the road of the helpless who gaze
she strikes with a corner of her brow, then withdraws behind the veil.
By night the wine wracks me into wakefulness,
and if by day I plead my grief, it slips away into sleep.
The road of love is all tumult and snare, O heart;
he stumbles who travels this way in haste.
Barter not the beggary at the Beloved's door for a throne;
who would trade the shade of that gate for the naked sun?
Once the black script of the raven hair is folded up in white,
the whiteness will not dwindle, though a hundred choices come and go.
When the wind of vanity gusts into the bubble's head,
its little crown of pride is drowned within the wine.
You are the veil upon the road, Hafez — rise up and be gone;
blessed is he who walks this way with no veil at all.