Ghazal 31

That Night of Power they speak of, the recluses say, is tonight —

O Lord, which star is it that holds this fortune’s might?

So that unworthy hands may seldom reach your tresses,

every heart within its ring is murmuring: Lord, O Lord!

I am slain by the pit of your chin, for from every side

a hundred thousand necks of soul are beneath the yoke of your chin.

My rider, whose face makes the moon its mirror —

the crown of the high sun is dust beneath her horse’s shoe.

See the reflection of sweat upon her cheek — the ardent sun,

in longing for that dew, burns daily with fever.

I will not abandon the beloved’s ruby lip or the wine cup —

ascetics, excuse me, for this is my creed.

In that hour when they saddle the wind’s back,

how shall I ride with Solomon, when my mount is an ant?

She who shoots arrows at my heart beneath her glance —

the life-force of Hafez’s soul is in her half-smile.

The Water of Life drips from the beak of his eloquence —

the crow of my pen, by God’s name, how noble is its taste!