An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 74
The whole yield of the forge of being and place amounts to naught;
bring wine, for all the world's possessions come at last to naught.
From heart and soul the true intent is the beloved's presence;
that is the aim — else heart and soul themselves amount to naught.
Court not the Lote-tree and the Tuba, in longing for their shade;
for, walking cypress, look but well — and they amount to naught.
Fortune is what falls to your arms unbought with the heart's blood;
else, won by toil and striving, the garden of paradise is naught.
The five brief days of respite allotted you at this halt —
rest sweetly for an hour, for all our time amounts to naught.
On the brink of the sea of vanishing we wait, O cupbearer;
seize the chance — from lip to mouth's edge the distance is naught.
Ascetic, be not too secure from jealousy's swift play —
the road from cloister to Magian shrine amounts to naught.
My affliction — I who am scorched, lamenting, worn away —
plainly needs no rehearsing, no telling: it comes to naught.
The name of Hafez has taken a fair mark; and yet, be sure,
before the rends the mark of gain and loss amounts to naught.