An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 41
Though wine gives joy and the wind is a scatterer of roses,
drink not to the harp's cry, for the constable is sharp of eye.
Should a flask and a fellow-reveller fall into your hand,
drink with prudence — for these are days that stir up strife.
Within the sleeve of your patched cloak conceal the cup,
for, like the flask's own eye, this age is a shedder of blood.
With the water of our eyes let us wash the wine from our cloaks,
for it is the season of scruple, the hour of abstinence.
Seek no sweet living from the sphere's inverted round,
for what seems clear atop this jar is all mingled with dregs.
The high-wheeling sphere is a sieve that sifts down blood,
and its siftings are the head of Kisrá, the crown of Parvíz.
With sweet song you took Iraq and Fars, O Hafez;
come now — the turn is Baghdad's, the hour is Tabriz's.