An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 61
O breeze, should your passage fall upon the Friend's country,
bring me a waft from the ambergris-scented tress of the Friend.
By His life — that in thanks I would scatter my soul,
if you would bring me a message from beside the Friend.
And if it be that you find no admittance to that court,
bring, for my eye, some dust from the door of the Friend.
I, a beggar, and the longing for His union — alas! —
unless in a dream I behold the image of the Friend's face.
My pine-cone heart is trembling like the willow
from yearning for the pine-tall stature of the Friend.
Though the Friend counts us as nothing worth,
we would not sell for a world one hair from the head of the Friend.
What harm if his heart be freed from the bond of grief,
while poor Hafez remains the slave and servant of the Friend?