Ghazal 36

Since the tip of your tress has fallen into the breeze’s hand,

the love-mad heart has split in two from grief.

Your sorcerous eye is the very essence of black magic —

except that this particular text has fallen ill.

Do you know what that dark mole is, in the curve of your tress?

A dot of soot that has fallen into the ring of the letter jim.

Your musky tress in the rosegarden of paradise on your cheek —

what is it? A peacock that has alighted in the garden of bliss.

My heart, in desire for your face, O companion of the soul,

is dust of the road that has fallen into the breeze’s hand.

Like dust, this earthly body cannot rise

from the head of your lane, for it has fallen with such weight.

The shadow of your stature upon my frame, O one of Jesus-breath —

is the reflection of a spirit that has fallen upon withered bones.

He whose station was nowhere less than the Ka’ba, from memory of your lip,

I have seen at the tavern door, where he has taken up residence.

Hafez, lost and wandering, with his grief for you, O dear friend —

there is a bond between us that was forged in ancient times.