Ghazal 197

If beauties practice such heart-stealing,

they will make a breach in the faith of ascetics.

Wherever that branch of narcissus blooms,

rose-cheeked ones make their eyes narcissus-beds.

O young one of cypress-stature! Speak before

they make a polo-stick from your form.

Lovers have no authority over their own heads —

whatever your command is, that they will do.

Before my eye it is less than a drop —

all these tales they tell of the flood.

When our beloved begins the mystical dance,

the holy ones on the throne clap their hands.

The pupil of my eye is drenched in blood —

where do they practice such tyranny on a human?

Get along well with sorrow, O heart! For the people of mystery

find their sweet pleasure in the crucible of separation.

Do not turn away from the midnight sigh, Hafez,

that they may make your face radiant as the dawn.