غزل شمارهٔ 290

Affrighted, became my heart; and careless, I, the darvish, am, As to what hath happened, to that (great) bewildered prey (my heart).

For the head of my own faith, I trembled like the willow : For, in the hand of one of bow eye-brow, Kafir in religion, is my heart.

(From much weeping) the fancy of the spirit of the (mighty) sea, I (a mere drop) mature. Alas ! In the head of this drop, absurd of thought (Hafiz), are what (crude fancies) !

Of that eye-lash, bold, rest-slayer, I boast On the tip of whose point, the wave of the sweet water (of life) dasheth.

From the sleeve of a thousand physicians, trickleth blood, If, for examination, a hand on my wounded heart, (drowned in blood, head to foot) they place.

In the street of the wine-house (the murshid's threshold), weeping and head cast down, I go : Because, of my (empty, vain) produce, ever cometh shame to me.

Remaineth neither the (prolonged) age of Khizr, nor the (great) dominion of Sikandar : Darvish ! upon the head of the mean world, strife make not.

Hafiz I to that girdle (of the true Beloved) reacheth not every beggar's hand The treasury greater than Karun's treasure, to hand bring.