Ghazal 181

From now on, my hand and the hem of that tall cypress —

who uprooted me entirely with her swaying height.

There is no need for minstrel and wine — just lift your veil,

for the fire of your face sets me dancing like wild-rue.

No face becomes the mirror of fortune's bridal chamber

except the face that is rubbed against the hoof of a steed.

I said: Let the secrets of your grief be whatever they are —

I have no more patience: what shall I do? How long?

Do not kill my musky gazelle, O hunter —

have shame before those dark eyes and do not bind her with a lasso.

I, this dusty one, who cannot rise from this door —

how can I kiss the lip of that lofty palace?

Take back your heart from those musky tresses, Hafez,

for the madman is better off in chains.