Ghazal 66

Lament, O nightingale, if you would be my companion in sorrow,

for we are two wretched lovers, and lamentation is our work.

In that land where a breeze blows from the beloved’s tresses,

what place is there for the scent of Tatar musk?

Bring wine, that we may color-stain our robe of deceit,

for we are drunk on the cup of pride, though our name is sobriety.

To cook up the fancy of your tresses is not the work of every novice —

to walk beneath the chain is the way of the rogue.

There is a hidden subtlety from which love arises,

whose name is neither ruby lips nor verdigris-green down.

A person’s beauty is not only the eye, tress, cheek, and mole —

there are a thousand subtleties in this business of being a beloved.

The qalandars of truth would not buy for half a barleycorn

the satin robe of one who is empty of art.

To reach your threshold is difficult — yes indeed,

ascent to the heaven of mastery is by hardship.

At dawn I saw the coquetry of your eye in my dream —

what a blessed rank of sleep, which is better than wakefulness!

Do not pain his heart with lament — conclude, O Hafez,

for eternal salvation lies in causing little harm.