Ghazal 340

I, whose heart boils from its fire like a wine-barrel —

with a seal on my lip, I drink blood and am silent.

To covet the beloved's lip is to seek one's own death —

look at me, striving with my life in this work.

When will I be free from the heart's grief? — for every moment

the dark Hindu of an idol's tresses curls a ring in my ear.

God forbid that I rely on my own devotion —

this much there is: that now and then I drink a cup.

I have hope that, despite the enemy, on Judgment Day

the bounty of His forgiveness will not place the burden of sin on my shoulder.

My father sold the garden of paradise for two grains of wheat —

why should I not sell the kingdom of the world for a barleycorn?

My wearing of the cloak is not from the height of piety —

it covers a veil over a hundred hidden faults.

I, who wish to drink nothing but the pure essence of the barrel —

what shall I do if I do not heed the words of the Magian elder?

If the minstrel of the assembly strikes the way of love like this,

the verse of Hafez will carry me out of my senses at the time of the mystic dance.