Ghazal 240

The cloud of March has risen, the Nowruz wind has blown —

I need money for wine and a minstrel — who says it has arrived?

Beauties are on display and I am ashamed of my purse —

the burden of love and poverty is heavy — it must be borne.

There is a famine of generosity — one must not sell one's honor;

wine and roses must be bought at the price of the cloak.

Apparently fortune will open something for me — for last night

I was praying, and the true dawn was breaking.

With one lip and a hundred thousand laughs the rose came to the garden —

as if from generosity it had caught a scent in some corner.

If a hem was torn in the world of revelry, what matter? —

a garment in the name of good repute must also be torn.

These subtleties I spoke from your ruby lip — who spoke them?

And this tyranny I saw from your tresses — who saw it?

If the sultan's justice does not ask after the oppressed of love,

the recluses must cut off all hope of comfort.

I do not know who shot the lover-killing arrow at Hafez's heart —

this much I know: that from his moist verse, blood was dripping.