Ghazal 127

The moon does not have the brightness of your face —

before you, the rose has no more splendor than a weed.

The corner of your brow is the dwelling of my soul —

no king has a finer corner than this.

What will the smoke of my heart do against your face? —

you know the mirror cannot endure the heat of a sigh.

See the impudence of the narcissus, blooming before you —

with wide-open eyes, it has no sense of propriety.

I saw it: that dark-hearted eye of yours

shows no regard for any familiar soul.

Give me a heavy measure, O disciple of the tavern —

to the joy of the sheikh who has no cloister.

Swallow blood and sit in silence, for that tender heart

cannot bear the cry of the justice-seeker.

Tell whoever has no path to this threshold:

Go wash your sleeve in the blood of your liver.

It is not I alone who suffers the tyranny of your tresses —

who is there that does not bear the brand of that dark one?

Hafez, if he prostrated before you, do not blame him —

the infidel of love, O idol, has no sin.