Poem #19

O Morning Breeze, where is the Friend's abode?

Where does that Moon, that Slayer, make his road?

The night is dark, the Valley lies ahead;

where is the Fire? The Meeting-place we tread?

All who enter this world are marked with ruin's sign;

ask in the Tavern: 'Who is sober with the wine?'

He brings good news who knows the secret sign;

many the points, but where's the heart divine?

Each hair of mine has business with your grace;

where are we now? And where the Critic's face?

Ask of those curls that twist and turn around:

'Where is the heart that in your snares is bound?'

Reason is mad! Where is the musky chain?

The heart is gone! Where is the eyebrow's pain?

The wine and minstrel wait, the feast is set;

but without You, no joy is with us yet.

Hafez, grieve not at Autumn's wind and scorn;

think well: Where is the Rose without a thorn?