Ghazal 361

She who trampled me like the dust of the road with cruelty —

I kiss the dust and beg pardon for her step.

I am not one to cry out from your cruelty — God forbid —

I am a faithful servant and a fortune-wishing attendant.

I have bound long hope in the curve of your tresses —

may it not be that the hand of seeking grows short.

I am a mote of dust and my place in your lane is sweet —

I fear, O friend, that a wind may carry me away suddenly.

The elder of the tavern at dawn gave me the world-revealing cup —

and in that mirror made me aware of your beauty.

I am a Sufi of the monastery of the holy world — but

for now the Magian temple is my place of referral.

With me, the wayside dweller, rise and come toward the tavern —

that in that circle you may see what rank I hold.

You passed by drunk and had no thought of your Hafez —

alas, if my sigh catches the hem of your beauty.

I was pleased that at dawn the king of the east was saying:

With all my sovereignty, I am the servant of Turanshah.