An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 387
The king of the box-tree-statured, the Khosrow of the honey-mouthed,
who with her lashes shatters the ranks of all who shatter ranks —
Half-drunk she passed, and cast her glance on me, the beggared dervish;
she said: 'O eye and lamp of every one that speaks the honeyed word!'
'How long shall your poor purse lie empty of silver and of gold?
Become my slave, and take your fill of every silver-bodied one.'
'Less than a mote you are not — sink not low; take up the practice of love,
that whirling you may reach at last the sanctum of the sun.'
'Lean not upon the world; and if you hold a goblet of the wine,
drink to the joy of the Venus-browed and the ones of tender frame.'
My draught-quaffing Elder — may his soul rejoice for ever —
said: 'Keep clear of the company of those who break their pledge.'
'Take fast in hand the skirt of the Friend, and cut yourself from the foe;
become a man of God, and pass, unburdened, past the Ahrimans.'
With the breeze in the tulip-field at dawn I made my questioning:
'Who are these martyrs, these thronging multitudes shrouded all in blood?'
It said: 'O Hafez, neither you nor I are confidants of this secret;
speak rather of the ruby wine and the ones of honeyed mouth.'