An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 265
My longing for your lip has not yet borne me to its goal;
in hope of your ruby cup, I still am draining the dregs.
From the first day my faith was lost in the coils of your tress;
what end this passion holds for me, I still do not know.
O cupbearer, one draught of that fire-hued water—for I,
among the ripened of his love, am still but raw.
Once, in error, I called your tress the musk of Khotan;
each moment a single hair still lays a sword to my flesh.
Since the sun beheld your face's ray within my solitude,
it steals, like a shadow, every hour to my door and roof still.
My name slipped one day, unawares, onto the Beloved's lip;
from my name, to the people of heart, the soul's own fragrance breathes still.
In eternity the cupbearer of your ruby lip poured us
a single draught of a cup—by which I am reeling still.
O you who said, 'Yield up your soul, and win your soul its peace'—
I gave my soul to her sorrows, yet have no peace still.
Hafez set down in his pen the tale of her ruby lip;
the water of life still flows, each hour, from my pens.