Ghazal 379

My head is merry, and with a loud voice I say:

I seek the breeze of life from the cup.

The frown of piety does not suit the face of a hangover —

I am the disciple of the cloak of the good-natured dregs-drinkers.

I became a legend in bewilderment — and the beloved's brow

drew me into the curve of its polo-stick, like a ball.

If the Magian elder does not open the door to my face,

which door shall I knock? Where shall I seek a remedy?

Do not reproach me in this garden for growing wild —

I grow as they nurture me.

You — do not see the monastery and the tavern between us —

God is witness that wherever He is, I am with Him.

The dust of the path of seeking is the alchemy of good fortune —

I am the slave of the fortune of that ambergris-scented dust.

From longing for the drunken narcissus of a tall beauty,

like the tulip with a cup, I have fallen on the bank of the stream.

Bring wine — for by the decree of Hafez, from a pure heart,

let us wash the dust of hypocrisy with the grace of the cup.