Un presagio da Hafez
Ghazal 459
From this fair line you trace upon the rose of the cheek,
you draw a stroke of down on the page of the rose and its garden.
The tear of me, the sanctuary-dweller of my hidden cell,
you draw from beyond seven veils out into the market.
The idle-drifting dawn-breeze, by the scent of the tress,
you draw at every breath, chained, into service.
Each breath, in memory of that wine-hued lip and drunken eye,
you draw me from my seclusion to the tavern-house.
You said: 'Your head will be bound to our saddle-thong';
it is easy — if you would bear the trouble of that load.
With your eye and your brow, what design for the heart can I make?
Ah, from this bow that you bend against me, the sick one.
Come back — the evil eye is warded off from your cheek,
O fresh-blown rose, that draws its hem clear of this thorn.
Hafez, what more do you seek from the bounty of the age?
You drink the wine and draw the heart-holder's tress through your hand.