Hafez · Ghazal 470 · My breast is full of pain
سینه مالامال درد است ای دریغا مرهمیدل ز تنهایی به جان آمد خدا را همدمی
چشم آسایش که دارد از سپهر تیزرو؟ساقیا جامی به من ده تا بیاسایم دمی
زیرکی را گفتم: «این احوال بین»، خندید و گفت:«صعب‌روزی، بوالعجب‌کاری، پریشان‌عالمی»
سوختم در چاه صبر از بهر آن شمع چگلشاه ترکان فارغ است از حال ما، کو رستمی؟
در طریق عشق‌بازی امن و آسایش بلاستریش باد آن دل که با درد تو خواهد مرهمی
اهل کام و ناز را در کوی رندی راه نیسترهروی باید جهان‌سوزی نه خامی بی‌غمی
آدمی در عالم خاکی نمی‌آید به دستعالمی دیگر بباید ساخت وز نو آدمی
خیز تا خاطر بدان ترک سمرقندی دهیمکز نسیمش بوی جوی مولیان آید همی
گریه حافظ چه سنجد پیش استغنای عشقکاندر این دریا نماید هفت دریا شبنمی
Hafez begins honestly: his heart is heavy and he longs for a companion. A wise friend laughs and agrees that the world is in disarray. Yet the ghazal turns towards courage. Love, he says, is not for those who want only ease; it asks for a traveller willing to feel deeply. If the world around you seems unable to offer what you need, perhaps something new must be built, in you and around you. Let the scent of a distant, beloved place call you forward, and do not be afraid of depth.
My breast is brimming with pain; alas, for a balm!
My heart is worn out with loneliness; for God's sake, a companion!
Who expects rest from the swift-turning heavens?
Saqi, give me a cup, so I may rest a moment.
I said to a clever man, "Look at these affairs"; he laughed and said,
"A hard day, a strange business, a world in disarray."
I have burned in the well of patience for that candle of Chigil;
the king of the Turks cares nothing for my state; where is a Rostam?
On the path of love's play, safety and ease are a calamity;
may that heart be wounded which wants a balm for the pain of you.
The seekers of pleasure and pampering have no road into the lane of the rend;
it needs a world-burning traveller, not a raw one who has never grieved.
A true human being is not to be found in this world of dust;
another world must be made, and a new human being.
Rise, let us give our hearts to that Turk of Samarkand,
for on her breeze comes the scent of the Muliyan stream.
What do the tears of Hafez weigh against the self-sufficiency of love,
when in this sea the seven seas look like a drop of dew?