An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 340
I, who from the fire of the heart ferment like a vat of wine,
have sealed my lip, and drink my own blood, and hold my peace.
To covet the lip of the Beloved is to hazard one's very soul;
behold me — how in this labour with my whole soul I strive.
When shall I win release from the heart's grief, since every moment
the Indian slave of an idol's tress twines a ring in my ear?
God forbid that I put any faith in my own obedience;
this much alone is true — that now and then I drain a cup.
Yet my hope is that, in spite of the foe, on the Day of Reckoning,
the bounty of His pardon will not lay the load of sin on my shoulder.
My father sold the garden of Rizwan for two grains of wheat;
why then should I not sell the realm of the world for a barleycorn?
My wearing of the patched cloak is not from excess of piety;
it is a veil I draw across a hundred hidden faults.
I, who wish to drink of nothing but the vat's clear vintage —
what shall I do, if I heed not the word of the Magian Elder?
If the minstrel of the feast strike up the road of love in this wise,
the verse of Hafez will bear my senses off in the hour of rapture.