An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 470
The breast is brimful of anguish — alas, a balm!
The heart is spent with solitude — for God's sake, a companion!
Who holds the eye of ease before the swift-wheeling sky?
Cupbearer, give me a cup, that I may rest a while.
I said to a wise man: “Behold these times.” He laughed and said:
“A harsh day, a strange affair, a world in disarray!”
I burned in patience's well for that candle of Chigil;
the Turks' king heeds not our state — where is a Rustam?
On love's road, safety and ease are calamity itself;
wounded be the heart that seeks a balm instead of your pain.
The folk of comfort and indulgence have no path in the rogue's lane;
a wayfarer is wanted — one who burns worlds, not a green, griefless soul.
A true man cannot be found in this world of dust;
another world must be shaped, and, anew, a man.
Rise, that we may set our hearts on that Turk of Samarkand,
for on her breeze there comes the scent of the Muliyan stream.
What weight has the weeping of Hafez before love's self-sufficiency,
where in this sea the seven seas appear a single dewdrop?