Ghazal 297

The tongue of the pen has no power to describe separation —

otherwise I would tell you the story of separation.

Alas — the span of my life, in hope of union,

has come to its end, and the time of separation has not.

The head I once rubbed proudly on the sky —

in truth I have laid it upon the threshold of separation.

How shall I spread my wings in the air of union,

when the bird of my heart has shed its feathers in the nest of separation?

Now what remedy? — for in the sea of grief, in a whirlpool,

the vessel of my patience has fallen, from the sail of separation.

Not much remains before the ship of life is drowned

in the wave of longing for you, in the shoreless sea of separation.

If separation fell into my hands, I would kill it —

may the day of parting be black, and the house and home of separation.

I am companion to the host of fantasy and seated with patience —

kin to the fire of parting and in conjunction with separation.

How shall I lay claim to your union, with my soul? — for

my body has become the agent of fate, and my heart the guarantor of separation.

From the burning of longing, my heart became roasted — far from the friend —

always I drink the liver's blood from the table of separation.

When the sky saw my head captive in the ring of love,

it bound the neck of my patience with the rope of separation.

If, on the feet of longing, this road had been traversed, Hafez,

no one would have given the reins to separation by the hand of parting.