Ghazal 58

Our head of devotion and the threshold of the beloved’s presence —

for whatever befalls our head is His will.

I have seen no likeness of the friend — though from sun and moon

I placed many mirrors before the face of the friend.

What can the breeze report of our constricted heart?

For like the folds within the rosebud’s petals, it is layer upon layer.

It is not only I who carry the jug in this rend-burning monastery —

many a head has been broken by jug and stone in this workshop.

Perhaps it was you who combed your ambergris-scattering tresses?

For the wind has become musk-rubbing, and the dust ambergris-scented.

Scattered for your face is every petal in the garden —

sacrificed for your stature, every cypress on the stream’s bank.

The tongue of speech is helpless to describe this longing —

what place is this for the cut-tongued pen of idle talk?

Your face has entered my heart — I shall find my desire,

for good fortune follows upon a good omen.

It is not only now that Hafez’s heart burns with desire —

branded from eternity, like the wild-growing tulip.