An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 437
O you, the tale of paradise is but a rumour of your lane;
the houri's beauty, but a passing word about your face.
The breaths of Jesus — a mere grace-note of your ruby lip;
the Water of Khizr — but a hint of your lips' sweet nectar.
Each shred of my heart, and a tale of grief thereon;
each line of your virtues, and a verse of mercy therein.
When would the rose grind perfume for the assembly of the pure,
had not your fragrance shown it that one regard?
Longing for the dust of the Friend's door, we burned to ash;
recall, O morning breeze, that you gave us no defence.
O heart, in vain your learning and your life went to the wind;
a hundred stores you held, and made not one suffice.
The scent of my roasting heart has seized the horizons;
this inward fire will spread its blaze abroad as well.
If in the flames the fancy of her cheek lends its hand,
come, cupbearer — of hell there is no complaint at all.
Do you know what Hafez craves from this grief and pain?
One coquettish glance from you — one favour from the king.