An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 431
I kiss her lip and draw the wine within;
upon the Water of Life I have traced the way.
Her secret I can breathe to no one living,
nor bear to see another at her side.
The goblet kisses her lip and swallows blood,
beholds her cheek and breaks into a sweat.
Hand me the cup, and speak no more of Jamshid —
who knows what Jam once was, or Kay, or when?
Strike the harp behind the veil, O moon-faced minstrel;
fret its string, that I may cry aloud through it.
The rose has borne its throne from cell to garden;
fold up the prayer-mat of restraint, like the bud.
Her eye is drunk — leave not the parched in longing;
in memory of her ruby lip, O cupbearer, pour.
The soul seeks no divorce from that frail vessel
whose vein and sinew run with the wine of the cup.
Draw in your tongue awhile, O Hafez, and be still;
hear the tongueless ones' tale sung by the reed.