Ghazal 470

My breast is brimful of pain — alas, a salve —

my heart has come to its end from loneliness — for God's sake, a companion.

Who has rest of eye from the swift-moving sphere? —

O cupbearer, give me a cup that I may rest a moment.

I told a clever one: See this state — he laughed and said:

A hard day, a strange affair, a disordered world.

I burned in the well of patience for the sake of that candle of Chegel —

the king of the Turks is unconcerned with our state — where is a Rostam?

On the path of love, safety and rest are a calamity —

may that heart be wounded that seeks a salve for your pain.

The people of pleasure and pride have no path in the lane of the rends —

a wayfarer is needed, a world-burning one — not a raw, carefree one.

A true human cannot be found in this dusty world —

another world must be made, and a new human from scratch.

Rise, that we may give our heart to that Turk of Samarkand —

from whose breeze comes the scent of the brook of Mulian.

What does the weeping of Hafez weigh before the self-sufficiency of love? —

for in this sea, the seven seas appear as a dewdrop.