Hafez · Ghazal 214 · I dreamed a cup was in my hand
دیدم به خواب خوش که به دستم پیاله بودتعبیر رفت و کار به دولت حواله بود
چل سال رنج و غصه کشیدیم و عاقبتتدبیر ما به دست شراب دوساله بود
آن نافه مراد که می‌خواستم ز بختدر چین زلف آن بت مشکین کلاله بود
از دست برده بود خمار غمم سحردولت مساعد آمد و می در پیاله بود
بر آستان میکده خون می‌خورم مدامروزی ما ز خوان قدر این نواله بود
هر کو نکاشت مهر و ز خوبی گلی نچیددر رهگذار باد نگهبان لاله بود
بر طرف گلشنم گذر افتاد وقت صبحآن دم که کار مرغ سحر آه و ناله بود
دیدیم شعر دلکش حافظ به مدح شاهیک بیت از این قصیده به از صد رساله بود
آن شاه تندحمله که خورشید شیرگیرپیشش به روز معرکه کمتر غزاله بود
A good dream has come true, and this ghazal invites you to trust it. After long effort and sorrow, Hafez finds that the answer arrives simply, like wine already waiting in the cup at dawn. What you have searched for far away may be close at hand, in the very thing you love. He also gives a gentle counsel: a life without kindness is like guarding a tulip in the wind, all effort and nothing kept. Sow warmth where you are, accept what fortune now offers, and let one true word count for more than a hundred arguments.
I dreamed a sweet dream: a cup was in my hand;
its meaning came, and my affairs were placed in the hands of fortune.
Forty years we bore toil and sorrow, and in the end
our remedy lay in the hand of two-year-old wine.
That musk-pod of my desire which I begged of fortune
lay in the twists of that idol's musky ringlets.
At dawn the hangover of my grief had overpowered me;
fortune came to my aid, and the wine was in the cup.
At the tavern's threshold I drink my heart's blood all the time;
this was the morsel fate set aside for us from its table.
Whoever did not sow kindness, and picked no rose from beauty,
was keeping watch over a tulip in the path of the wind.
At morning my way led past the edge of the rose garden,
at the hour when the dawn bird's work was sighing and lament.
We saw Hafez's charming poem in praise of the king:
one couplet of this ode was worth more than a hundred treatises.
That fierce-charging king before whom the lion-hunting sun
was less than a fawn on the day of battle.