Ghazal 412

I have a blood-raining eye from the hand of that bow-browed one —

the world will see much sedition from that eye and from that brow.

I am the slave of the eye of that Turk, who in the sweet sleep of drunkenness —

her painted garden is her face, and the musky canopy is her brow.

My body has become a crescent from this grief — for before the imperial sign of her brow,

who is the moon to show its brow from the arch of the sky?

The rivals are heedless, and to us, from that eye and forehead, every moment

there are a thousand kinds of messages — and the chamberlain between is the brow.

For the spirits of the recluses, her forehead is a wondrous garden —

on the edge of its jasmine-field, the brow strolls gracefully.

No one will speak of houris and fairies any more with such beauty —

for this one has such eyes, and that one has such a brow.

You, O infidel-heart, do not bind the veil of your tresses, and I fear

that my prayer-niche will be turned by the curve of that heart-stealing brow.

Although Hafez was a clever bird in devotion,

the arrow of her glance hunted him — that eye, that bow-brow.