Poem #402

Let me reveal a subtle point: behold that moon-faced beauty's mole,

And see the intellect and soul bound in her tresses' dark control.

I chided my poor heart: "Be still! Don't roam so wild and everywhere!"

It said: "See but her lion-hunting eye, her gazelle's grace beyond compare!"

Her ringlet is the gallery where the morning breeze delights to play;

See a hundred saintly souls bound by a single hair's display.

The sun-worshippers nothing know of our Beloved's radiant grace;

O critic, leave the outer shell; for God's sake, look upon that Face!

Her heart-thieving tress has placed a collar on the breeze's neck;

See how this Hindu trickster deals with those who walk the spirit's trek.

That I became estranged from self in seeking her is strange to tell;

No eye has seen, nor shall it see, a wonder parallel to this.

If Hafez in the prayer-niche cries and laments, do not condemn;

O preacher, for the love of God, behold that eyebrow's arching stem!

Turn not your head, O wheeling Sphere, from Shah Mansur's immense desire;

Behold the sharpness of his sword, his arm of strength and martial fire!