Ghazal 192

My swaying cypress — why does she not visit the garden?

She does not become the companion of the rose, nor remember the jasmine.

Yesterday I made a complaint about her tresses, and with mockery

she said: This dark, crooked thing does not listen to me.

Since my wandering heart went to the curl of her tresses,

from that long journey it does not intend to return home.

Before the bow of her brow I plead, but

her ear is pulled tight — she does not listen to me.

With all the fragrance of your skirt, I wonder at the breeze —

that passing by you it does not make your dust into Khotan's musk.

When the breeze makes the violet's tresses full of curls —

alas, how my heart does not stop remembering that oath-breaker.

My heart, in hope of her face, does not become the companion of the soul —

my soul, in longing for her lane, does not serve the body.

My silver-legged cupbearer, even if she gives all dregs —

who is there who would not make their whole body a mouth, like a wine-cup?

Do not make the water of my face the plaything of cruelty — for the cloud's grace

without the aid of my tears, does not produce Aden's pearl.

Slain by your glance was Hafez, the one who heeded no advice —

the sword is fitting for one whom pain does not make speak.