An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 318
You look on me, and every moment you increase my pain;
I look on you, and every moment my longing grows the more.
You ask not after my state — I know not what intent you keep;
you strive not for my cure — perhaps you know not my pain.
It is no fair way, that you leave me on the dust and flee;
turn back, and ask of me again — that I may become the dust of your road.
I loose not my hand from your hem, save in the dust — and even then,
when you walk over my dust, my ashes will seize your hem.
My breath sank low from the grief of your love — how long feign to revive me?
You have wrung the life from me — will you not say: I have wrung it out?
One night I sought my heart in the darkness of your tress;
I gazed upon your cheek and drank a crescent cup.
I drew you sudden to my breast, and was lost in the coil of your locks;
I laid my lip upon your lip, and gave up soul and heart as ransom.
Be you but glad with Hafez — go, tell the foe: 'Give up your soul';
when I feel your warmth, what fear have I of the cold-breathed foe?