Ghazal 19

O morning breeze, where is the resting place of the beloved?

Where is the dwelling of that lover-slaying, cunning moon?

The night is dark and the path of the valley of Ayman lies ahead —

where is the fire of Sinai? Where is the appointed meeting?

Everyone who comes into this world bears the mark of ruin —

go to the tavern and ask: where is the sober one?

That one is worthy of glad tidings who understands the signs —

there are many subtleties; where is the keeper of secrets?

Every hair on my head has a thousand dealings with you —

where are we, and where is the idle fault-finder?

Ask again of those tresses, curl upon curl:

where is this grief-stricken, bewildered, captive heart?

Reason has gone mad — where is that musky chain?

The heart has withdrawn from us — where is the beloved’s brow?

The cupbearer, the minstrel, and the wine are all prepared, but

joy is not possible without the beloved — where is the beloved?

Hafez, do not grieve at autumn’s wind in the garden of the world —

think reasonably: where is the rose without a thorn?