Un presagio da Hafez
Ghazal 58
The crown of our devotion and the threshold of the Friend's court;
for whatever passes over our head is of His will.
No likeness of the Friend have I seen, though from moon and sun
I set up mirrors before the Friend's face.
What can the breeze relate of our straitened heart,
that lies fold upon fold like the leaves of your bud?
Not I alone am the pitcher-bearer, burned in this rends' cloister;
many a head in this workshop is but stone and pitcher.
Surely you have combed your ambergris-scattering tress,
that the wind turned civet-grinder and the dust breathes amber.
A ransom for your face be every rose-leaf in the meadow;
a sacrifice to your stature every cypress by the stream.
The very speaking tongue lies lamenting in longing's praise;
what room is there for the cut-tongued reed of idle speech?
Your face has entered my heart — I shall attain my desire,
for a good state follows fast upon a good omen.
It is not now that Hafez's heart lies in the fire of desire,
for, branded from eternity, it is like the self-sown tulip.