غزل شمارهٔ 58

The head of our desire, and the threshold of the Mighty Friend: For, whatever passeth over our head is His will.

My Friend’s equal, I have not seen; although of the moon and of the shining sun, The mirrors opposite to the Friend’s face I placed.

Of our straitened heart, giveth the breeze what news, That, like the folding of the leaves of the rosebud, tightly folded it is.

Not alone, am I a wine-drinker of this cloister, profligate consuming: O many a head in this workshop is the dust of the pitcher!

Verily, Thou combedest Thy tress, ambergris-scattering, Since that the breeze became like civet; and the dust, beperfumed with ambergris.

The sprinkling of Thy face, every rose-leaf that is in the sward: The ransom of Thy lofty form, every cypress that is on the river-bank.

In the description of His Love, the tongue of speech is dumb: What room for the reed, split of tongue, folly uttering?

Thy face came into my heart: my desire I shall gain: For, after the happy omen, is the happy state.

Not, at this time, is Hafez’s heart in the fire of search: For, the bereaved Eternity is like the self-growing wild tulip.