Ghazal 73

Lit by the radiance of your face, there is no gaze that is not —

grateful for the dust of your door, there is no sight that is not.

Those who gaze upon your face are the discerning ones — indeed,

the secret of your tresses is in no head that is not.

If my tale-telling tears rose up red, what wonder?

Ashamed of its own deeds, there is no veil-tearer that is not.

So that not a speck of dust from the breeze may settle on your hem,

there is no path from my eyes that is not a flood-source.

So that everywhere they may speak of the night of your tresses,

there is no dawn I do not have a word with the breeze.

I would grieve at my disordered fortune, were it not that

there is no one else who does not benefit from your lane.

From the shyness of your sweet lips, O fountain of sweetness,

there is no sugar now that is not drenched in water and sweat.

It is not wise that the secret should fall from behind the veil —

yet in the assembly of the rends, there is no news that is not.

The lion becomes a fox in the desert of your love —

alas for this road, in which there is no danger that is not.

The water of my eyes, which is indebted to the dust of your door —

there is no threshold dust that is not under a hundred debts to it.

Of my being, some name and trace exists, that exists —

otherwise, from weakness, there is no trace there that is not.

Apart from this point — that Hafez is displeased with you —

in the whole of your being, there is no art that is not.