Ghazal 437

O you whose lane is a tale of paradise —

the description of the beauty of houris is a narration of your face.

The breath of Jesus is a subtlety from your ruby lip —

the Water of Khezr is a metaphor for your sweet lips.

Every piece of my heart has a tale of sorrow —

every line of your qualities is a verse of mercy.

When would it have become the perfume-giver of the assembly of the spiritual ones —

the rose, if it had not observed the courtesy of your scent?

In longing for the dust of the beloved's door, I burned —

remember, O breeze — for you gave no protection.

O heart, for nothing your knowledge and life went to the wind —

you had a hundred resources and made no sufficiency from them.

The scent of my grilled heart filled the horizons —

this inner fire will indeed spread its contagion.

In the fire — if the image of her face comes to hand —

cupbearer, come — for there is no complaint of hell.

Do you know what Hafez desires from this pain and grief?

From you a coquetry, and from the sovereign a kindness.