Poem #415

O messenger of righteous hearts, relate our Lover's state;

Tell the poor warbling nightingale how fares the royal mate.

We are the intimates of Love within its secret hall;

So speak familiar words to friends who know the hidden call.

When once she shook her musk-dark locks and let the ringlets fall,

What secret had she then with us? For God's sake tell it all.

If any says, “The dust beneath her door is alchemy,”

Then bid him speak that very word before our eyes to see.

If any blocks our way from wine and would the inn forbid,

Tell him to say his sermon where our elder's face is hid.

If you again should pass before that portal crowned with fate,

Present our service, speak our prayers, then tell our lonely state.

Though we are poor and stained with wrong, let not your anger grow;

Tell like a king the tale of sin that haunts the beggar's woe.

Read to this pauper all the lines the mighty sovereign wrote;

Tell this poor beggar every tale that crowns the royal throat.

When from the snare of her dark locks the souls are cast to ground,

What happened to our stranger heart? O breeze, where is it found?

The stories of the gnostic hearts give nourishment untold;

Go seek a secret from their lips, return and have it told.

Hafez, should they admit you to that court of majesty,

Drink wine and, for the sake of God, renounce hypocrisy.