Ghazal 467

From that wine of love by which every raw one becomes cooked —

though it is the month of Ramadan, bring a cup.

Days have passed since this poor hand of mine has not held

the tresses of a boxwood-statured one, the arm of a silver-bodied one.

Fasting, though it is a dear guest, O heart —

count its company as a gift, and its departure as a blessing.

The clever bird does not fly past the monastery door now —

for a trap has been set at every preaching assembly.

I do not complain of the ill-tempered ascetic — this is the custom:

that when a dawn breaks, an evening follows it.

When my beloved strolls to view the garden —

deliver my message to her, O courier of the breeze.

That companion who day and night drinks pure wine —

is it possible that he remembers a dregs-drinker?

Hafez, if the Asaf of the age does not grant your heart's desire,

you will find it hard to gain your wish from the self-willed.