Un presagio da Hafez
Ghazal 192
My swaying cypress—why does she not lean toward the meadow's green,
not keep the rose for company, nor call the jasmine to her mind?
Of her tress I made complaint one day, and, mocking, thus she gave reply:
'This black and crooked thing, alas, will lend no ear to what I say.'
Since my heart, that idle wanderer, went into the coil of her hair,
from that far journey of its own it will not turn toward home again.
Before the drawn bow of her brow I lift my endless, pleading prayer,
yet she has drawn her ear away—she lends no ear to what I say.
For all the trailing of your hem, I marvel at the morning breeze,
that from your passing it makes not the dust the very musk of Khotan.
When at the breeze the violet's curl grows crowded, fold on fold, with waves,
ah, how my heart calls back to mind that faithless breaker of her vow!
The heart, in hope of her fair face, becomes no comrade to the soul;
the soul, athirst for her far street, will do no service to the flesh.
My silver-limbed cupbearer, though she pour me nothing but the dregs—
who is there that will not turn, wine-cup-like, his whole body into mouth?
Make not the water of my face the plaything of your tyranny,
for without my weeping tears the cloud breeds no bright pearl in Aden's sea.
Hafez was slain by your quick glance, and heeded not the counsel given;
the sword is fit for any man whom words of wisdom cannot wound.