An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 442
By her soul — that, had I but access to my own soul,
the least I'd lay before her slaves would be that soul.
I would have said: what price the dust beneath her foot,
were there a precious, everlasting life to give?
The cypress would confess its bondage to her stature,
had it, like the free-standing lily, ten tongues to speak.
Not even in dream I see her — what talk of union?
Since this was not, and I saw nothing, at least the dream was something.
Had not my heart become the captive of her tress,
when had it found repose in this dark heap of dust?
In face she is peerless in the world, like the sphere's own sun;
in heart — alas! — would she were but one mote as kind.
Would she came in at my door, like a gleam of light,
that her command might flow over these two eyes of mine.
When would the lament of Hafez fall past the veil,
were he not the breath-companion of dawn's singing birds?