Un presagio da Hafez
Ghazal 412
I have an eye that rains down blood from that bow-browed one's hand;
the world will witness much unrest from that eye and that brow.
I am the slave of the eye of that Turk who, in the sweet drunken sleep,
has a rose-painted garden for a face and a musk-dark awning for a brow.
My body has turned a crescent from this grief: with her brow's own sceptre-scroll,
what moon is there could show a brow from the arch of heaven?
The rivals are heedless, and to us, from that eye and forehead, every hour
come a thousand kinds of message, with the brow as go-between.
To the souls of the recluses her brow is a wondrous rose-plot,
for above her jasmine-field the brow moves gracefully to and fro.
No more would one say of houri or fairy, for all their beauty,
'This one has such an eye, and that one such a brow.'
You, the infidel-hearted, veil not your tress — and I fear
the curve of that heart-ravishing brow will turn away my mihrab.
Though Hafez was a wary bird in his devotion,
the eye of that bow-brow made him prey with the arrow of a glance.