Hafez · Ghazal 226 · I fear my tears will tear the veil
ترسم که اشک، در غم ما پرده‌در شودوین راز سر به مهر به عالم سمر شود
گویند سنگ لعل شود، در مقام صبرآری شود، ولیک به خون جگر شود
خواهم شدن به میکده گریان و دادخواهکز دست غم خلاص من، آنجا مگر شود
از هر کرانه تیر دعا کرده‌ام روانباشد کز آن میانه یکی کارگر شود
ای جان حدیث ما بر دلدار بازگولیکن چنان مگو که صبا را خبر شود
از کیمیای مهر تو زر گشت روی منآری به یمن لطف شما خاک، زر شود
در تنگنای حیرتم از نخوت رقیبیا رب مباد آن که گدا معتبر شود
بس نکته غیرحسن بباید که تا کسیمقبول طبع مردم صاحب‌نظر شود
این سرکشی که کنگره کاخ وصل راستسرها بر آستانه او خاک در شود
حافظ چو نافه سر زلفش به دست توستدم درکش ار نه باد صبا را خبر شود
This ghazal holds one of Hafez's best-known sayings: a stone becomes a ruby through patience, though the patience costs the heart something. What you are hoping for may be ripening slowly, and the waiting has not been easy. Hafez's counsel is to keep sending your hopes out in every direction, like arrows of prayer, trusting that one of them will strike home. Love has a way of turning dust to gold. Meanwhile, be discreet: tell your story only to the one who needs to hear it, and keep the rest close.
I fear my tears, in grief for us, will tear the veil,
and this sealed secret become a tale told round the world.
They say a stone becomes a ruby in the station of patience;
yes, it does, but it becomes one through the heart's blood.
I will go to the tavern weeping and calling for justice,
for there, perhaps, I may be set free from the hand of grief.
From every side I have sent arrows of prayer flying;
perhaps among them one will strike home.
O soul, tell our story once more to the beloved,
but do not tell it in a way the morning breeze can hear.
By the alchemy of your love my face has turned to gold;
yes, by the blessing of your kindness, dust turns to gold.
I am in the narrow strait of wonder at the rival's arrogance;
O Lord, may the beggar never come to be held in esteem!
Many subtleties beyond beauty are needed before anyone
can please the nature of those who truly see.
Such is the pride of the battlements on the palace of union
that heads become the dust upon its threshold.
Hafez, since the musk-pod of her curl is in your hand,
hold your breath, or else the morning breeze will hear.