An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 468
Who will bear to the kings a word from me, the beggar —
that in the wine-sellers' lane a cup fetches two thousand Jamshids?
Ruined I am, and infamous, yet still I hope
that by the zeal of the noble I may reach a good name.
You who deal in alchemy, cast a glance at our counterfeit heart,
for we own no stock in trade, and have laid but a snare.
Marvel at the Beloved's faith, that she showed no grace —
no message by a letter, no greeting by a pen.
Be this wine raw, or that companion ripe —
one raw soul is a thousandfold better than a thousand ripe.
Turn me not from my road, O shaikh, with the beads of your rosary,
for the knowing bird will fall into no snare.
I mean to serve you — buy me by your grace, and sell me not,
for a slave like me falls seldom, and by good fortune.
Where shall I carry my complaint, to whom tell this tale —
that your lip was our very life, yet had no constancy?
Loose the arrow of your lashes and spill the blood of Hafez,
for on such a slayer none exacts revenge.