An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 410
O you, kingship's very robe is cut true to your stature;
the crown's and signet's adornment is from your lofty jewel.
Each moment the sun of victory gives a fresh sunrise
from that kingly cap — the moon-visaged cheek of you.
Wherever the sphere-brushing canopy of yours casts its shade,
there is the parade-ground of the bird of good fortune.
Of the rites of the Law and of wisdom, through a thousand disputes,
never did one fine point escape your knowing heart.
The Water of Life drips from the beak of eloquence —
that sweet-tongued parrot, I mean, your sugar-chewing reed.
Though the sun of the sphere is the world's own eye and lamp,
the giver of light to its eye is the dust of your foot.
What Alexander sought, and the age denied to him,
was one draught from the limpid, soul-refreshing cup of you.
To voice one's need within the shrine of your presence is needless;
no one's secret stays hid before the radiance of your mind.
O Khosrow — grey-haired Hafez still plays at being young,
in hope of your soul-giving, sin-effacing pardon.