Un presagio da Hafez
Ghazal 461
'I wrote the tale of my longing, my streaming eye in tears';
come — without you I am spent to the soul from grief.
Full oft, from longing, I have said to my two eyes:
'O dwellings of Salma, where then is your Salma?'
A wondrous happening, a strange befalling this:
'I bore it, patient, as one slain — and my slayer complains.'
To whom does it fall to fault your unstained hem —
you, pure as the drop that trembles on the rose's leaf?
From the dust of your foot the tulip and rose drew their sheen,
when Creation's pen set its mark on a water and clay.
The breeze turned ambergris-scattering — cupbearer, rise,
'and bring a sun of bounty, perfumed and pure.'
'Leave off your sloth, and profit — a proverb has run:
that the wayfarers' provision is quickness and nimble feet.'
No trace of me was left without your form — yes,
'yes, the marks of my life-giving face are your own.'
Of the praise of your beauty, how should Hafez frame his speech,
when, like the work of God, you lie past all grasp?