Ghazal 389

Like the rose, every moment from longing for your scent,

I tear my garment from collar to hem.

The rose saw your body and, it seems, in the garden,

like drunkards tore its garment upon its body.

I can hardly escape alive from the hand of your grief —

but you easily stole my heart from me.

By the words of enemies you turned from your friend —

no one ever becomes an enemy with a friend.

Your body in clothes is like wine in the glass —

your heart in the breast is like iron in silver.

Rain tears from your bleeding eye, O candle —

for the burning of your heart has become clear to all.

Do not — lest from my breast a liver-burning sigh

rise up like smoke through the window.

Do not break my heart and cast it underfoot —

for it has its dwelling in the tip of your tresses.

Since the heart of Hafez is tied in your tresses,

do not cast his work underfoot in this way.