Un presagio da Hafez
Ghazal 290
My heart took fright and fled, and I, the dervish, remain unaware
of what has befallen that bewildered quarry of mine.
Like the willow, I tremble in fear for my very faith,
for my heart is in the hand of a bow-browed one of infidel creed.
The fancy would boil down the ocean's whole vastness—alas!
what schemes are lodged in the head of this impossible-dreaming drop!
I extol that playful, well-being-slaying eyelash of hers,
upon whose piercing point the nectar-water surges.
From the sleeve of the physicians a thousand drops of blood would drip,
should they, but to test it, lay a hand on the wounded heart.
To the tavern-street, weeping, with lowered head, I go,
because shame steals over me at the harvest of my own deeds.
Neither the life of Khizr endures, nor Alexander's realm;
wrangle not over this base world, O dervish.
The hand of every beggar cannot reach that girdle, Hafez;
get to your hand a treasury greater than the hoard of Korah.