Poem #407

I saw the green field of the Sky, and the sickle of the moon;

I thought of my own sown fields, and the harvest coming soon.

I cried: "O Fortune! You have slept, and the sun is in the sky!"

She said: "Despair not of the past, nor let your hope run dry."

If you ascend the heavenly sphere, pure as the Christ and bright,

A hundred beams from your own lamp shall give the sun its light.

Lean not upon this bandit star, this thief of night and day;

It stole Keykavus' crown, and took Keykhosrow's belt away.

Though Heaven's ear is decked with stars, like gold and ruby rings,

Take heed! For beauty passes by, and fleets on swift wings.

Far be the evil eye from thy dark mole! For on Beauty's board,

It moved a pawn that won the stakes from Sun and Moon and Lord.

Tell the proud Sky: "Boast not your pomp! For in the mart of Love,

The Moon is worth a barley-corn, the Pleiades a grain above."

The fire of false, hypocritic zeal will burn the harvest black;

Hafez, cast off this woolen cloak, and leave the ruin's track!