Un presagio da Hafez
Ghazal 430
If, to the nightingale's and ring-dove's voice, you drink no wine,
how shall I cure you? At the last, the remedy is the cautery.
Lay up a store of the colour and scent of the spring-tide,
for close behind come the highwaymen, Bahman and Dey.
When the rose flung off its veil, and the bird cried 'hu, hu,'
let not the cup slip from your hand — what are you doing? Hey, hey!
When did the pomp of reign and beauty grant any permanence?
Of Jamshid's throne a mere word remains, and the crown of Kay.
The hoarding of the heirs is infidelity itself,
by minstrel's and cupbearer's word, by the fatwa of tambourine and reed.
The age bestows nothing that it does not take back again;
seek no chivalry from the base — for its nature is nothing.
They have written on the arch of the Garden of Refuge:
'Whoever bought the world's coquetry — woe unto him!'
Generosity is no more — I fold up the word — where is the wine?
Pour it, to the joy of the soul and spirit of Hatim of Tai.
The miser catches not the scent of God — come, Hafez,
take up the goblet, practise generosity, and the guarantee is upon me.