Ghazal 493

O sovereign of beauties, give justice from the grief of loneliness —

my heart has come to its end without you; it is time you came back.

The rose of this garden does not always stay fresh —

help the weak in the time of your strength.

Last night I was complaining of her tresses to the wind —

it said: You are wrong — pass beyond this melancholy thought.

A hundred morning breezes dance here in chains —

this is your match, O heart — lest you measure the wind.

Longing and exile, far from you, have made me such

that the shallow ford of patience will slip from hand.

O Lord, to whom can this riddle be told: that in the world

that beauty who belongs to all has shown her face to no one?

Cupbearer! The garden of the rose has no color without your face —

set the boxwood in motion, that you may adorn the garden.

O you whose pain is my cure in the bed of misfortune —

O you whose memory is my companion in the corner of loneliness.

In the circle of destiny, we are the point of surrender —

grace is what you think; the decree is what you command.

The thought of self and one's own counsel have no place in the world of the rend —

in this creed, self-seeing and self-willing are infidelity.

From this azure circle, give me wine, O liver-blood —

that I may solve this riddle in the azure goblet.

Hafez! The night of separation has ended — the sweet scent of union has come —

may joy be blessed upon you, O distracted lover!