Poem #332

Don't pierce my heart with coquetry's sharp arrow

for I will die before your fevered gaze in sorrow.

Your beauty fills perfection's sacred measure

so grant me charity, a beggar starved of pleasure.

How long, O ascetic, will you trick me like a child

with orchard apples, honey, milk so mild?

My chest grew brimming with the Beloved's sacred light

till every thought of self was lost from mind and sight.

Fill up the cup, for in love's blessed reign

I'm young in luck though age has marked me plain.

I've made a pact with wine-sellers, bold and clear

that on days of grief no solace but the goblet shall appear.

May my pen record no ledger save of minstrel and wine

let every other subject from its script resign.

Amid this uproar where none inquires of another's plight

I welcome grace from the Magian elder's light.

Happy that instant when wine's proud self-sufficiency

bestows release from kingly and vizierial tyranny.

I am that bird whose song at dusk and dawn does soar

descending from the Throne's high roof forevermore.

Like Hafez I guard that treasure in my heart's deep core

though pretenders see me lowly evermore.