Hafez · Ghazal 408 · The sun holds your mirror
ای آفتاب آینه دار جمال تومشک سیاه مجمره گردان خال تو
صحن سرای دیده بشستم ولی چه سودکـ‌این گوشه نیست درخور خیل خیال تو
در اوج ناز و نعمتی ای پادشاه حسنیا رب مباد تا به قیامت زوال تو
مطبوعتر ز نقش تو صورت نبست بازطغرانویس ابروی مشکین مثال تو
در چین زلفش ای دل مسکین چگونه‌ایکآشفته گفت باد صبا شرح حال تو
برخاست بوی گل ز در آشتی درآیای نوبهار ما رخ فرخنده فال تو
تا آسمان ز حلقه به گوشان ما شودکو عشوه‌ای ز ابروی همچون هلال تو
تا پیش بخت بازروم تهنیت کنانکو مژده‌ای ز مقدم عید وصال تو
این نقطه سیاه که آمد مدار نورعکسیست در حدیقه بینش ز خال تو
در پیش شاه عرض کدامین جفا کنمشرح نیازمندی خود یا ملال تو
حافظ در این کمند سر سرکشان بسیستسودای کج مپز که نباشد مجال تو
You have been making room in your life for something you love, cleaning the courtyard and waiting, and yet it may feel the space is never quite worthy. Hafez knows this feeling. He waits for one glance, one piece of good news, and meanwhile the scent of the rose has already risen: spring is here, and the door of peace is open. Come in by that door. Let go of anxious, crooked schemes, and trust that what is meant for you arrives with a fortunate face.
O you for whose beauty the sun holds up the mirror,
for whose mole black musk swings the censer:
I washed the courtyard of the house of my eyes, but what use,
since this corner is not worthy of the host of your image?
You are at the height of grace and plenty, O king of beauty;
Lord, may you never decline until the Day of Judgement.
No form more pleasing than yours was ever drawn again
by the scribe who drew the seal of your musk-dark eyebrow.
How are you, poor heart, in the folds of her curl?
For the morning breeze told your story in disarray.
The scent of the rose has risen: come in by the door of peace,
O our new spring, your face of happy omen.
So that the sky may become one of our ring-eared slaves,
where is one flirting glance from your new-moon eyebrow?
So that I may go before fortune again with congratulations,
where is the good news of the coming festival of union with you?
This black point that became the centre of light
is a reflection of your mole in the garden of sight.
Before the king, which wrong shall I lay out:
the story of my own need, or your weariness of me?
Hafez, many proud heads are caught in this lasso;
do not brew crooked fancies, for they are beyond your reach.