Un presagio da Hafez
Ghazal 482
O heart, you make no passage toward the street of love;
you have the means all gathered, and yet you do no work.
The polo-mallet of command is in your hand, and you strike no ball;
the falcon of victory sits on your fist, and you take no quarry.
This blood that surges within your liver —
you turn it not into a beloved's color and scent.
Your breath grew not musk-scented, because, like the breeze,
you make no passage over the dust of the Friend's street.
I fear you will bear off no sleeve of roses from this meadow,
for you will not endure a single thorn from its rose-garden.
In the sleeve of your soul are a hundred folded pods of musk,
and you will not give even one for a friend's tress.
You hold a fine, heart-alluring goblet, and you spill the wine on the dust,
and take no thought of the calamity of the morning-after.
Hafez, go — for though all men do the service of the king of the age,
you, for your part, will do it not.