An omen from Hafez
Ghazal 9
Again the garden wears the splendor of youth's season;
to the sweet-voiced nightingale comes the glad news of the rose.
O breeze, if once again you reach the young of the meadow,
bear our service to the cypress, the rose, and the basil.
If the wine-selling Magian boy would flaunt himself so,
I would make my eyelashes the broom of the tavern door.
O you who trail a polo-stick of pure amber over the moon,
cast not into turmoil me, the reeling wanderer.
I fear this crowd who laugh at the drainers of the dregs
will, in the end, wreck their faith on the tavern's affair.
Be a friend to the men of God — for in Noah's ark
there was a speck of dust that would not sell the flood for water.
Go forth from the house of the wheeling sphere, and beg no bread;
for that black bowl, in the end, kills its own guest.
Whoever's last resting-place is a mere fistful of dust —
say: what need to raise a palace to the sky?
My moon of Canaan, the throne of Egypt is now yours;
the hour has come to bid farewell to the prison.
Hafez, drink wine, live as a rend, and be glad — but
make not the Qur'an, like others, a snare of hypocrisy.