An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 331
If her hand should slay me with the blade, I will not stay it;
and if she strike me with the arrow, I will take it as a favour.
Tell the bow of your brow to loose its arrow,
for at your hand and arm I gladly die.
If the world's grief should bring me to my knees,
who but the wine-cup shall be my helping hand?
Arise, O sun of the morning of hope,
for I lie captive in the grip of the night of parting.
Come to my cry, O Elder of the tavern:
with one draught make me young, for I am old.
By your dark tress last night I swore an oath,
that I would never lift my head from your feet.
Burn up this cloak of piety, Hafez, yourself,
for even were I turned to fire, it would not catch upon me.