Ghazal 68

My moon departed this week, and to my eyes it is a year —

what do you know of separation’s state, and how difficult it is?

The pupil of my eye, from the grace of her face reflected in her face,

saw its own image and thought it was a musky mole.

Milk still drips from her sugar-like lips,

though in coquetry each of her lashes is a killer.

O you who are pointed out for generosity throughout the city —

alas, in the affairs of strangers, how strange is your neglect!

Henceforth I shall have no doubt about the singular essence,

for your mouth is a fine proof of this point.

They gave glad tidings that you would pass our way —

do not turn from your good intention, for it is a blessed omen.

How shall the mountain of separation’s grief be borne?

Poor weary Hafez, whose body from lamenting is thin as a reed.