An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 23
The image of your face is our fellow on every road;
the breeze of your hair is the bond of our wakeful soul.
Despite the pretenders who would forbid us love,
the beauty of your face is our warrantable proof.
See what the apple of your chin proclaims:
a thousand Egyptian Josephs have fallen into our pit.
If our hand does not reach your long tress,
the fault is our disheveled fortune and our too-short arm.
Tell the chamberlain at the door of the private sanctum:
a certain recluse is the dust of our threshold.
Though in form she is veiled from our sight,
she is ever before the view of our contented mind.
If once a year Hafez knocks at a door, open it,
for years he has longed for our moon-like face.