Ghazal 408

O sun, you are the mirror-holder of her beauty —

black musk is the censer-turner of her mole.

I have washed the courtyard of the eye, but what use —

for this corner is not worthy of the host of your image.

You are at the height of coquetry and bounty, O king of beauty —

O Lord, may there be no decline till Resurrection for you.

More elegant than your design, no image was ever bound —

O calligrapher of that musky brow in your likeness.

In the curve of her tresses — O poor heart, how are you? —

for the morning breeze said your state is in disarray.

The scent of the rose has risen — enter through the door of peace —

O our springtime, your auspicious-omened face.

So that the sky may become one of our ring-eared servants —

where is a coquetry from your crescent-like brow?

So that I may go before fortune with congratulations —

where is glad tidings of the arrival of your feast of union?

This black dot that became the orbit of light —

is a reflection in the garden of vision from your mole.

Before the king, which injustice shall I present? —

the account of my needfulness, or your displeasure?

Hafez — in this lasso are many proud heads —

do not cook crooked schemes, for there is no room for you.