Ghazal 221

When I put my hand on her tresses, she goes into a twist —

and if I seek peace, she goes with reproach in her head.

Like the new moon, she blocks the path of helpless onlookers —

she signals with the corner of her brow and goes behind the veil.

The night of wine makes me ruined in wakefulness —

and if by day I complain, she goes to sleep.

The path of love is full of turmoil and sedition, O heart —

whoever goes with haste on this road will fall.

Do not sell begging at the beloved's door for kingship —

would anyone leave the shadow of this door for the sun?

When the dark page of black hair is turned,

the whiteness does not diminish though a hundred elections pass.

When the wind of pride enters the bubble's head,

its lordship goes into the head of the wine.

You yourself are the veil on the road, Hafez — rise from the midst!

Blessed is the one who goes on this road without a veil.