Un presagio da Hafez
Ghazal 8
Cupbearer, rise and pour the cup;
heap dust on the head of the sorrow of the days.
Set the wine-bowl in my palm, that I may
strip from my shoulders this blue-dyed frock.
Though it be ill fame in the eyes of the prudent,
we want neither shame nor good name.
Pour the wine — how long this wind of pride?
Heap dust on the head of the ill-starred self.
The smoke of the sigh of my lamenting breast
has burned to ash these cold and half-formed men.
A confidant for my frenzied heart's secret
I find in none — neither high-born nor low.
In one heart-soother alone my mind finds ease,
who bore off all repose from my heart at a stroke.
No more will he look on the cypress in the meadow,
whoever has once beheld that silver-bodied cypress.
Endure, Hafez, the hardship of day and night;
in the end, one day, you will attain your desire.