Un presagio da Hafez
Ghazal 124
The one whose hyacinth tress holds a curl of civet-musk
turns once again to the heart-lost with coquetry and reproach.
You pass, like the wind, above the head of your own slain;
what can be done — it is life, and it goes in haste.
The moon that shows her sun from behind the veil of her tress
is a sun with a cloud drawn close before its face.
My eye has set a flood of tears running in every corner,
that your slender cypress may drink of fresher water.
Your playful glance sheds my blood, and calls it a mistake;
let it have its way — its erring holds a rightful aim.
If this is the Water of Life that the Friend's lip keeps,
then plainly Khizr came only to a mirage's share.
Your languorous eye takes aim, from my heart, upon the liver;
a drunken Turk it is — perhaps it hungers for the roast.
My ailing soul has no face to put its question to you;
oh, blessed the sick one who wins an answer from the Friend.
When will his drunken eye turn a glance toward the wounded heart of Hafez,
that keeps a ruined tavern in every corner of itself?