An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 390
The crown of the sultan-rose has risen from the border of the meadow;
O Lord, may its coming be blessed upon the cypress and the jasmine.
Fair in its own true place is this royal enthronement now;
that everyone henceforth may sit contented in his own true place.
Give the good tidings of a fair end to the seal-ring of Jamshid,
for the Most Sublime Name has cut off Ahriman's hand from it.
May this house flourish unto eternity, from the dust of whose door
each breath the wind of Yemen wafts with the fragrance of the Merciful.
The might of the son of Pashang, and his world-subduing sword,
in all the books of kings became the tale told round the gathering.
The polo-steed of your sphere is grown tame beneath the saddle;
O royal horseman, now you have come to the field — cry, strike the ball!
The flowing water of the realm's own runnel is your sword;
plant the tree of justice; tear up the root of the ill-willed.
No wonder now, if with the fragrance of your sweet disposition,
from the desert of Izaj should rise the musk-pod of Khotan's own musk.
The corner-dwelling recluses await your lovely epiphany;
set the corner of your cap awry, and cast the veil from your face.
I took my counsel with reason; it said: 'Hafez, drink the wine';
cupbearer, pour the wine, by the word of the trusted counsellor.
O breeze, lay my petition before the cupbearer of the Atabak's feast,
that from that gold-showering cup he may bestow a single draught on me.