Ghazal 130

At dawn the nightingale told the breeze its tale:

what love for the rose's face has done to us.

From that color of her cheek, blood fell into my heart,

and from that rosegarden, thorns became my lot.

I am the slave of the aspiration of that graceful one

who did her good work without show or pretense.

I will not complain of strangers anymore,

for whatever was done to me, that familiar one did.

If I hoped from the king, it was a mistake,

and if I sought fidelity from the beloved, she gave cruelty.

Blessed be that morning breeze

that was the cure for the pain of those who sit through the night.

It drew aside the rose's veil and the hyacinth's tress,

and opened the knot of the rosebud's robe.

On every side the nightingale cried out in love,

while the morning breeze strolled in luxury through the midst.

Bring the good news to the lane of the wine-sellers:

Hafez has repented of the hypocrisy of piety.

The fidelity that the lords of the city showed me —

Kamal al-Din Abu al-Vafa performed it perfectly.