An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 493
O king of the fair, grant me justice from the grief of solitude;
the heart, without you, is spent — it is time you came back.
The rose of this garden stays not forever fresh;
succor the weak while the power is yours.
Last night I made complaint of her tress to the wind;
she said: “You err — leave off this melancholy thought.”
A hundred dawn-breezes here dance with the chain of her tress;
this is your true comrade, O heart — cease measuring the wind in vain.
Longing and estrangement, far from you, have brought me to such a pass
that the last shallows of my patience are about to slip from hand.
O Lord, to whom may one tell this point — that in all the world
that everywhere-beloved has shown her cheek to none?
Cupbearer, the meadow's rose has no color without your face;
set the box-tree strolling, that you may adorn the garden.
O you, whose pain is my cure on the bed of despair,
and O you, whose memory is my friend in the corner of solitude —
In the circle of apportioning we are the point of submission;
the grace is whatever you think, the command whatever you decree.
Our own thought and our own will have no place in the world of the rogue;
in this creed, self-regard and self-will are infidelity.
From this enamel wheel, give me the liver-blood of wine,
that I may resolve this riddle in the enamel goblet.
Hafez, the night of parting is past, the sweet scent of union has come;
blessed be your joy, O love-distraught lover!