غزل شمارهٔ 209

By the sword (of inclination) of thine, the slaughter of this shattered one decreed, it was not : If not, by the glance of sorcery of thine, a fault it was not.

(O true Beloved !), when I, distraught, released Thy tress, For me (distraught), more fit than the chain-fetter, aught was not.

O Lord ! lustre how hath Thy beauty's mirror, Wherein, to my sigh the power of impression was not.

Through astonishment, at the door of the wine-house (the world of love and of divine knowledge) I put out of my head : When, in the cloister, a Pir, a recogniser of thee was none.

In the sward of grace, more graceful than Thy stature, aught grew not In the world of picture, more pleasant than thy picture aught was not.

So that, perchance, like the morning-breeze I may reach Thy tress, Last night, my profit save night-weeping, aught was not.

O fire of separation ! from thee, that I endured that, candle-like, Save self-destruction, by thy hand, a plan for me was none.

Hafiz's grief without thee was a mark of torture : Of which to any one, need of explanation was not.