An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 333
At the evening prayer of exiles, when I begin to weep,
with the moaning of the stranger I unfold my tale.
In memory of Beloved and homeland I will weep so bitterly
that I sweep from the world the very road and rite of travel.
I am of my Beloved's country, not of the alien lands;
O Protector, restore me to my companions once again.
For God's sake, some help, O comrade of the road, that I
may raise my banner once more toward the lane of the tavern.
When will Reason take account of my old age,
seeing I gamble at love once more with a child-idol?
None knows me but the east wind and the north, my dear —
for save the breeze I have no confidant at all.
The air of the Beloved's dwelling is our water of life:
O breeze, bring me a fragrance from the dust of my Shiraz.
My tears came forth and told my fault to my very face —
of whom shall I complain? My tell-tale is of my own house.
From the harp of Venus I heard, as the dawn broke, this song:
'I am the slave of Hafez, sweet of tongue, and sweet of voice.'