Ghazal 290

My heart has fled, and I, poor dervish, am unaware

of what has befallen that bewildered prey.

Like a willow I tremble over my own faith,

for my heart is in the hand of a bow-browed infidel.

It dreams of having the ocean's capacity — alas!

What ideas are in the head of this droplet of impossible thoughts!

I marvel at that mischievous, peace-killing eyelash,

whose sweet water makes waves over the tip of the sting.

A thousand bloods would drip from the physician's sleeve

if by way of experiment they placed a hand on my wounded heart.

To the tavern lane I will go weeping and head-bowed,

for I am ashamed of what I have to show for myself.

Neither Khidr's life endures, nor Alexander's kingdom —

do not quarrel over this base world, O dervish.

Not every beggar's hand can reach that waist, Hafez —

bring a treasury to hand greater than the treasure of Qarun.