Ghazal 322

The image of your form I drew in the workshop of my eye —

a beauty like you I have neither seen nor heard of.

Though in seeking you I am swift as the north wind,

I have not reached the dust of your swaying cypress stature.

I did not bind my hope in the night of your tresses to the day of my life —

I cut off my desire for the circle of your mouth from the desire of my heart.

In longing for the spring of your sweetness, what drops I shed! —

from your ruby wine-selling lip, what coquetries I bought!

From your glance, what arrows you loosed upon my wounded heart! —

from grief, at the head of your lane, what burdens I bore!

From the beloved's lane, bring me a speck of dust, O morning breeze —

for I caught the scent of my wounded heart's blood from that earth.

It was the fault of your dark eye and your charming neck

that, like a wild gazelle, I fled from humankind.

Like a bud, a breeze passed over my head from her lane,

and I tore the veil from my bleeding heart at her scent.

By the dust of your foot, I swear — and by the light of Hafez's eye —

that without your face, I saw no light from the lamp of the eye.