Un presagio da Hafez
Ghazal 195
The crowned kings of the earth are slaves of your intoxicated eye;
the sober-minded fall in ruin before your ruby-coloured wine.
The breeze turned traitor telling you, my streaming tears betrayed but me;
else lover and beloved both are faithful keepers of the secret.
When you pass out from underneath that double-folded, falling tress,
look what a company of mourners kneel upon your right and left.
Pass, like the breeze, above the bed where violets in their darkness grow,
and see how many restless souls your tress's tyranny has made.
Paradise is our given lot—O knower of God, go your way,
for it is the sinners, after all, who most deserve the gift of grace.
Not I alone chant, and I sole, the ghazal of that rose-bright cheek,
for on your every side your nightingales are ranged in thousandfold.
Take my hand, O blessed-footed Khizr, and be my guide upon the road,
for I am travelling on my feet while all my comrades ride as kings.
Come to the tavern of the vine and make your cheek Judas-tree red;
go not to the cloister of the pious—there the doers of dark deeds dwell.
May Hafez never find release from that long, curling snare of hair,
for those made captive in your noose are they who at the last are saved.