An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 448
O you who hold a station in the tavern's street,
you are the Jam of your age, if your hand holds a cup.
O you who pass night and day with the Friend's tress and cheek,
seize the chance — sweet is your morning, and sweet your eve.
O breeze, the burnt ones wait at the head of the road,
if you carry any word from that far-gone Friend.
Your verdant mole is a sweet seed of delight; but
ah, at its meadow's edge — what a snare you have set!
I catch the soul's own scent from the goblet's laughing lip;
hear it, O master, if you have a sense to smell.
Since in the season of faith you kept no constancy at all,
I give thanks that in cruelty at least you are constant.
If a stranger seeks a good name of you, where's the harm?
You are the one, today, in this city, who owns a name.
Long will your dawn-prayer be a companion to the soul —
you, who own a slave who rises at dawn, like Hafez.