Poem #331

If that hand pulls the sword to strike me down, I won't resist

and if an arrow pierces me, I'll accept it as love's twist.

Tell your eyebrow's bow to strike—let fly its arrow true

for gladly would I die beneath your hand and arm in view.

If worldly sorrow brings me to my knees in deep despair

what helper have I but the wine cup's tender care?

Rise, O sun of hope's bright morning hour

for I'm held captive in separation's endless night with no power.

Come to my aid, O tavern elder wise

with one quick sip make me young again, for age has dimmed my eyes.

Last night I swore by your tresses' flowing grace

never to raise my head from your feet's sacred place.

Burn this cloak of piety, Hafez—set it aflame

for even should I become pure fire, I won't take it back the same.