Un presagio da Hafez
Ghazal 211
Last night she came, and all aflame the colour of her cheek burned bright;
and somewhere yet again, no doubt, some grief-struck heart was burned to ash.
The custom of the slaying of lovers, the art of setting towns astir,
was but a garment that was cut and fitted close upon her form.
The souls of lovers she esteemed but rue-seed cast before her face,
and had kindled bright the fire of her cheek to serve her in this very work.
Though still she said, 'I'll slay you slow, in piteous pain,' yet still I saw
that secretly she kept a glance for me, the one whose heart was scorched.
The infidel of her dark tress waylaid the very road of faith,
and that hard-hearted one had lit, behind it, a torch out of her cheek.
The heart brought many drops of blood to hand—yet still the eye poured all away;
O God, O God—who squandered it, and who had hoarded it with care?
Sell not the Friend to gain the world, for little profit ever won
the man who once had sold his Joseph off for base and worthless gold.
She spoke, and spoke it well: 'Go, Hafez, go and burn your dervish-cloak.'
O Lord, from whom, from whom had she this art of knowing the false coin?