Un presagio da Hafez
Ghazal 133
The Sufi laid his snare and flung his casket's lid aside;
he raised the walls of trickery and matched his sleight against the sky.
The turning wheel will crack the egg beneath his conjurer's cap,
for he paraded all his sorcery before the keepers of the secret.
Come, cupbearer — the lovely witness of the Sufi's rites
has stepped once more into her splendour and begun to play the coquette.
Whence comes this minstrel, who has tuned the mode of Iraq,
then turned his melody again along the road of Hijaz?
O heart, come, let us flee for refuge to the shelter of our God
from him whose sleeve is short of alms yet whose grasping hand is long.
Play no false art: whoever did not stake his love in truth,
love barred against his heart the door where meaning enters in.
Tomorrow, when the audience-hall of Truth is thrown ajar,
abashed will stand the wayfarer whose deeds served but the counterfeit.
O gracefully-stepping partridge, whither away? Stand still! —
be not beguiled: the ascetic's cat has learned to say its prayers.
Hafez, cast no blame upon the rends, for in eternity
God set us free, past need, of all hypocrite austerity.