Ghazal 226

I fear that tears in our grief will tear the veil,

and this sealed secret will become a tale for the world.

They say stone becomes ruby in the station of patience —

yes, it does — but only through the blood of the liver.

I will go weeping and pleading to the tavern —

perhaps from grief's hand my salvation is there.

From every direction I have sent arrows of prayer flying —

it may be that one from among them will hit its mark.

O soul, tell our story again to the beloved —

but not in such a way that the breeze learns of it.

From the alchemy of your love, my face turned to gold —

yes, by the grace of your kindness, dust becomes gold.

I am in the narrow pass of bewilderment from the rival's pride —

O Lord, may it not happen that a beggar becomes esteemed.

Many a point beyond beauty is needed before someone

becomes accepted by the taste of people of vision.

This haughtiness that the battlement of the palace of union possesses —

heads become the dust of its threshold.

Hafez, since the musk-pod of her tresses' tip is in your hand,

hold your breath — lest the morning breeze learn of it.