Hafez · Ghazal 390 · The crown of the rose-sultan
افسر سلطان گل پیدا شد از طرف چمنمقدمش یا رب مبارک باد بر سرو و سمن
خوش به جای خویشتن بود این نشست خسرویتا نشیند هر کسی اکنون به جای خویشتن
خاتم جم را بشارت ده به حسن خاتمتکاسم اعظم کرد از او کوتاه دست اهرمن
تا ابد معمور باد این خانه کز خاک درشهر نفس با بوی رحمان می‌وزد باد یمن
شوکت پور پشنگ و تیغ عالمگیر اودر همه شهنامه‌ها شد داستان انجمن
خنگ چوگانی چرخت رام شد در زیر زینشهسوارا چون به میدان آمدی گویی بزن
جویبار ملک را آب روان شمشیر توستتو درخت عدل بنشان بیخ بدخواهان بکن
بعد از این نشگفت اگر با نکهت خلق خوشتخیزد از صحرای ایذج نافه مشک ختن
گوشه گیران انتظار جلوه خوش می‌کنندبرشکن طرف کلاه و برقع از رخ برفکن
مشورت با عقل کردم گفت حافظ می بنوشساقیا می ده به قول مستشار مؤتمن
ای صبا بر ساقی بزم اتابک عرضه دارتا از آن جام زرافشان جرعه‌ای بخشد به من
A new season has arrived, crowned like a king at the edge of the meadow, and with it the hope that everything returns to its rightful place. This ghazal welcomes a just and generous order: plant the tree of fairness and pull up what is harmful by the root. If something in your life has been out of balance, this may be a time when things settle where they belong. Even reason, Hafez says with a smile, tells him to enjoy the cup. Accept good fortune gracefully, and ask, with a light heart, for your share.
The crown of the rose-sultan has appeared at the edge of the meadow;
O Lord, may his coming be blessed for the cypress and the jasmine.
This royal enthronement sat well in its rightful place,
so that now everyone may sit in their rightful place.
Give Jamshid's seal-ring good news of a good ending,
for the Greatest Name has kept the devil's hand from it.
May this house flourish forever, for from the dust of its door
at every breath the wind of Yemen blows with the scent of the Merciful.
The majesty of Pashang's son and his world-conquering sword
have become the tale of every gathering in all the books of kings.
The sky's polo horse has been tamed beneath your saddle;
master horseman, now that you have come onto the field, strike the ball.
Your sword is the running water in the stream of the realm;
plant the tree of justice and pull up the ill-wishers by the root.
No wonder if from now on, with the fragrance of your gracious nature,
the musk-pod of Khotan rises from the plain of Izaj.
Those who keep to their corners are waiting for your lovely appearance;
tilt the brim of your cap and throw the veil back from your face.
I took counsel with reason; it said: “Hafez, drink wine.”
Saqi, give wine, on the word of a trusted counsellor.
O breeze, put it to the saqi of the Atabak's feast
that from that gold-scattering cup he might grant me a sip.