An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 467
Of that wine of love by which each raw soul ripens,
though it be the month of Ramadan, bring me a cup.
Days have gone by in which my poor hand never clasped
the tress of a box-tree-slender one, nor a silver forearm.
The fast, O heart, though it be an honored guest,
count its stay a boon, and its leaving a mercy.
The knowing bird now shuns the cloister's door,
for in each preaching-circle a snare lies set.
I make no grievance of the sour ascetic — such is the way:
when a dawn breaks, an evening comes hunting close behind.
When my Friend goes strolling to gaze upon the meadow,
carry to her from me, O courier-breeze, a message.
That comrade who drains clear wine by night and day —
will it once cross her mind to recall a dreg-drinker?
Hafez, if the Asaf of the age grant not your heart its due,
you shall win your hard-sought desire by your own striving.