Hafez · Ghazal 290 · My heart has fled
دلم رمیده شد و غافلم من درویشکه آن شکاری سرگشته را چه آمد پیش
چو بید بر سر ایمان خویش می‌لرزمکه دل به دست کمان ابرویی‌ست کافرکیش
خیال حوصله بحر می‌پزد هیهاتچه‌هاست در سر این قطره محال‌اندیش!
بنازم آن مژه شوخ عافیت‌کش راکه موج می‌زندش آب نوش، بر سر نیش
ز آستین طبیبان هزار خون بچکدگرم به تجربه دستی نهند بر دل ریش
به کوی میکده گریان و سرفکنده رومچرا که شرم همی آیدم ز حاصل خویش
نه عمر خضر بماند، نه ملک اسکندرنزاع بر سر دنیی دون مکن درویش
بدان کمر نرسد دست هر گدا حافظخزانه‌ای به کف آور ز گنج قارون بیش
Hafez trembles like a willow, his heart run off after a beauty, his wounds beyond any healer. Yet the ghazal's counsel is clear and steadying: neither Khizr's long life nor Alexander's kingdom lasts, so do not quarrel over passing things. If you feel small beside what you long for, like a drop dreaming of the sea, do not despise the dream; but be humble, honest about your shortcomings, and kind to yourself. Turn towards what endures, and let the lesser struggles go.
My heart has fled, and I, a poor dervish, do not know
what has befallen that bewildered quarry.
Like the willow I tremble for my faith,
for my heart is in the hand of one with bow-shaped brows and an infidel's creed.
It is dreaming of holding the whole sea; alas,
what notions fill the head of this drop, imagining the impossible!
How I admire that saucy eyelash, the killer of peace,
on whose sting's tip the water of sweetness surges in waves.
A thousand drops of blood would drip from the healers' sleeves
if, to test it, they laid a hand upon my wounded heart.
I go to the tavern's lane weeping, with my head bowed,
because I am ashamed of what I have to show.
Neither Khizr's long life remains, nor Alexander's kingdom;
do not quarrel over the base world, dervish.
Not every beggar's hand can reach that waist, Hafez:
get hold of a treasure greater than Korah's hoard.