Ghazal 14

I said, O sultan of beauties, have mercy on this stranger.

She said, One who follows the heart loses the way — poor stranger.

I said, Linger a moment. She said, Forgive me —

how can one raised in comfort bear the grief of so many a stranger?

One cradled in royal sable — what does such a delicate one care

if thorns and stone make the bed and pillow of this stranger?

O you in whose chain of tresses so many familiar ones find place,

how well that dark mole sits upon your colored cheek — stranger!

The reflection of wine shows in the hue of your moonlike face

like a leaf of Judas-tree on a page of jasmine — strange.

How strangely that ant-line of down has fallen around your face —

though in the gallery of beauty, a musky line is no stranger.

I said, O night of strangers — your dark, night-colored tress —

at dawn beware, when this stranger begins to wail.

She said, Hafez, the familiar ones stand bewildered —

no wonder if the weary, wretched stranger sits apart.