غزل شمارهٔ 73

From the ray of Thy face, luminous a glance is not. that is not: The favor of the dust of Thy door, on an eye is not, that is not.

Those possessed of sight, are the spectator of Thy face. Yes: The desire of Thy tress, in any, a desire is not, that is not.

If through my grief for Thee, my tear issue red, what wonder? Ashamed of that done by himself, a screen-holder is not that is not.

So that on Thy skirt, a little dust may not settle, The torrent of tears from my vision, a great pathway is not that is not.

So that, everywhere, it may not boast of the evening of Thy tress-tip, Conversation with the breeze, mine a morning is nor that is not.

On me, wherefore bindest thou the girdle of malice, when of love On the waist of my heart and soul, a girdle is not, that is not.

O sweet fountain! from the modesty of Thy sweet lip, Now, steeped in water and sweat, a piece of sugar is not, that is not.

No good counsel is it that the mystery should fall out of the screen. And, if not, in the assembly of profligates, a piece of news is not that is not.

In the desert of love for Thee, the lion becometh the fox: Alas, this Path! wherein a danger is not that is not.

The water of my eye, whereon is the favor of the dust of Thy door Under a hundred favors of His. the dust of a door is not that is not.

From the head of Thy street, I cannot go a step: And, if not, in the heart of the heart-bereft, a journey is not that is not.

Save this subtlety that Hafez is not pleased with thee, Wholly, in thy existence, a skill is not, that is not.