An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 304
Sovereign of the world, the faith's own succour, the flawless Khosrow,
Yahya son of Muzaffar, the just king of the age.
O you, at whose Islam-sheltering court there is opened
a casement of the soul on the face of earth, a door within the heart —
To revere you is a duty binding upon soul and reason;
your bounty overflows and enfolds all being and all space.
On the day of eternity, from your pen one drop of black
fell on the moon's bright face — and every riddle was resolved.
When the sun beheld that dark mole, it sighed within its heart:
'O would that I had been that fortunate Hindu mole!'
O king, the sphere itself dances and chants at your feast;
withdraw not the hand of joy from the hem of this refrain.
Drink wine and bestow the world, for in the noose of your tress
the neck of the ill-wisher is fettered fast in chains.
The turning of the sphere runs wholly on the highroad of justice;
rejoice, for the tyrant finds no road to his goal.
Hafez, the pen of the world's king apportions daily bread;
for the sake of your living, harbour no idle care.