Ghazal 266

My heart is captive to a gypsy-like one, tumult-raising,

false-promising, killer-natured, and color-mixing.

May a thousand garments of piety and cloaks of abstinence

be sacrificed for the torn shirt of the moon-faced ones.

The image of your mole I will carry with me to the earth,

so that from your mole, my dust becomes perfume-mixed.

The angel does not know what love is, O cupbearer —

call for a cup and pour rosewater on Adam's dust.

Tie a cup to my shroud, so that on the morning of resurrection

I may drive from my heart the terror of the Day of Rising with wine.

Poor and weary I have come to your threshold — have mercy,

for I have no handhold but devotion to you.

Come, for the unseen voice of the tavern said to me last night:

Be in the station of acceptance, and do not flee from destiny.

Between lover and beloved there is no barrier —

you yourself are your own veil, Hafez — rise from the middle.