Ghazal 3

If that Shirazi Turk would take my heart into her hand,

for her dark Hindu mole I would give Samarkand and Bukhara.

Give me, cupbearer, the wine that remains, for in paradise you will not find

the banks of Ruknabad or the rose walks of Mosalla.

Alas! These bold, sweet-working, city-shaking beauties

have stolen patience from the heart as Turks plunder a feast.

The beauty of the beloved has no need of our imperfect love —

what need has a lovely face for rouge and mole and kohl and line?

From that ever-growing beauty that Joseph possessed, I knew

that love would draw Zuleikha from behind her veil of chastity.

If you command me harshly or curse me, still I will pray for you —

a bitter answer well becomes those ruby, sugar-scattering lips.

Listen to this counsel, dear soul, for the fortunate young

hold dearer than life the advice of a wise elder.

Speak of the musician and wine, and seek less the world’s secrets,

for no one has solved, nor shall solve, this riddle by wisdom alone.

You have composed your ghazal and strung your pearls — come, sing sweetly, Hafez,

for upon your verse the heavens scatter the stars of the Pleiades.