Ghazal 332

Do not strike my heart with the tip of your glance's arrow —

for I will die before your sick eyes.

The quota of beauty is at the limit of perfection —

give me the alms-tax, for I am poor and destitute.

Like children, how long, O ascetic, will you tempt me

with the apple of the garden and honey and milk?

So full has the space of my breast become with the friend

that the thought of myself has been lost from my mind.

Fill the cup — for in the fortune of love,

I am young-fortuned in the world, though I am old.

I have made a pact with the wine-sellers:

on the day of grief, I will take nothing but the goblet.

May there be nothing but the account of minstrel and wine

if the pen of the scribe draws any design for me.

In this tumult where no one asks after anyone,

I accept the favor of the Magian elder.

How pleasant that moment when, from the pride of drunkenness,

I have freedom from king and vizier.

I am that bird whose whistle every evening and dawn

comes from the roof of the Throne.

Like Hafez, I hold his treasure in my breast —

though the pretender sees me as insignificant.