Un presagio da Hafez
Ghazal 226
I fear that the tear, in our sorrow, will rend the veil,
and this secret, sealed and hushed, become the world's byword.
They say the stone turns ruby in the station of patience;
yes, so it does — but only with the heart's own blood.
I will go to the tavern, weeping and crying for justice,
for perhaps my release from the grip of grief awaits me there.
From every quarter I have loosed the arrow of prayer;
it may be that from among them one shall strike its mark.
O soul, tell over again our tale to the heart's Beloved,
yet tell it not so that the breeze should overhear.
By the alchemy of your love my face turned gold;
yes, by the grace of your favor, dust is transmuted to gold.
I am hemmed in bewilderment by the rival's arrogance;
O Lord, let it never be that a beggar grow esteemed.
Many a grace beyond beauty is needed before one
wins the favor of those endowed with discerning sight.
This haughtiness that the battlement of union's palace bears —
heads are made the dust of its threshold at its gate.
Hafez, since the musk-pod of her tress lies in your hand,
hold in your breath — else the breeze will catch the scent.