Poem #455

Life passed in fruitlessness and whim, O son, hear my plea

give me the cup of wine, that you may old age see.

What sugars are in this city that the royal falcons of the Way

have become content with the station of a fly today?

Last night I walked in her troop of slaves, to her door I drew near

she said, "O poor lover, who are you, standing here?"

With a heart turned to blood like the musk-pod, he must be glad

whoever became famous in the world for the musk-scent he had.

The lightning flashed from Sinai, and I saw its fire bright

perhaps I bring you a brand from that holy light.

The caravan has gone, you sleep, and the desert lies ahead

alas, you know not the clamor of the bells that have sped.

Spread your wings and sing from the Tuba tree's high stage

'tis a pity for a bird like you to be captive in a cage.

To catch the Beloved's hem for a moment like the censer's fume

I placed my soul on fire for the sake of that sweet perfume.

How long will Hafez seek your air from every side and space

may God ease the path for you, O seeker of Grace.