Ghazal 482

O heart, you do not make a passage in the lane of love —

you have the means assembled, yet you do nothing.

The polo-stick of command is in your hand, yet you strike no ball —

the falcon of victory is on your wrist, yet you hunt no prey.

This blood that surges in your liver —

you do not spend it on the color and scent of a beauty.

Your breath did not become musky because, like the breeze,

you do not pass over the dust of the friend's lane.

I fear you will not carry a rose in your sleeve from this garden —

for from its garden you do not bear a thorn.

In the sleeve of your soul a hundred musk-pods are hidden —

and you do not sacrifice them for the tresses of a beloved.

The goblet is delicate and lovely, yet you cast the wine to the ground —

and you do not think of the calamity of the hangover.

Hafez, go — for the service of the king of the time —

if everyone else does it, you at least do not.