An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 71
The outward-worshipping ascetic knows nothing of our state;
let him say what he will of us — it gives no cause for offence.
Upon the Path, whatever meets the traveller is his gain;
on the straight road, O heart, no wayfarer goes astray.
Whatever face the dice may turn, we mean to play our pawn;
on the libertines' chessboard the King is granted no square.
What is this lofty, unadorned vault of a thousand figures?
No sage on earth is party to the secret of this riddle.
What self-sufficiency is this, O Lord — what sovereign wisdom,
that all these hidden wounds should be, yet leave no room to sigh?
Our Chancellor, you'd swear, has never learned to keep accounts,
for in this royal cipher stands no mark of 'for God's sake.'
Whoever wills, let him draw near; whatever he wills, let him speak —
no pride, no airs, no chamberlain, no gatekeeper guards this door.
To seek the tavern threshold is the work of the single-hued;
the self-vaunting have no road into the wine-sellers' lane.
Whatever falls amiss is from our own misshapen frame;
else your robe of honour falls short on no man's stature.
I am the bondsman of the Magian Elder, whose grace endures;
the grace of shaikh and ascetic comes and goes as it pleases.
If Hafez sits not at the head, it springs from a lofty soul;
the dreg-draining lover wears no chains of wealth and rank.