Hafez · Ghazal 73 · Every glance is lit by your face
روشن از پرتو رویت نظری نیست که نیستمنت خاک درت بر بصری نیست که نیست
ناظر روی تو صاحب نظرانند آریسر گیسوی تو در هیچ سری نیست که نیست
اشک غماز من ار سرخ برآمد چه عجب؟خجل از کرده خود پرده دری نیست که نیست
تا به دامن ننشیند ز نسیمش گردیسیل خیز از نظرم ره‌گذری نیست که نیست
تا دم از شام سر زلف تو هر جا نزنندبا صبا گفت و شنیدم سحری نیست که نیست
من از این طالع شوریده برنجم ور نیبهره‌مند از سر کویت دگری نیست که نیست
از حیای لب شیرین تو ای چشمه نوشغرق آب و عرق اکنون شکری نیست که نیست
مصلحت نیست که از پرده برون افتد رازور نه در مجلس رندان خبری نیست که نیست
شیر در بادیه عشق تو روباه شودآه از این راه که در وی خطری نیست که نیست
آب چشمم که بر او منت خاک در توستزیر صد منت او خاک دری نیست که نیست
از وجودم قدری نام و نشان هست که هستور نه از ضعف در آن جا اثری نیست که نیست
غیر از این نکته که حافظ ز تو ناخشنود استدر سراپای وجودت هنری نیست که نیست
Look around you: the light you love touches everything, and many others share in it. Hafez notices that his grievance comes mostly from his own troubled luck, not from any lack in what he loves; indeed, with a smile, he says its only flaw is his own displeasure. Let this ghazal soften your complaint. The road has its dangers, and some secrets are better kept, but there is far more goodness here than you have been counting. Look again, with gratitude, and your share will become clear.
There is no glance that is not lit by the radiance of your face;
there is no eye that does not owe a debt to the dust of your door.
Those who have true vision gaze upon your face, yes;
there is no head without the thought of your tresses.
If my tell-tale tear came out red, what wonder?
There is no tearer of veils who is not ashamed of his deed.
So that no dust from your breeze should settle on your hem,
there is no road my eyes have not flooded with tears.
So that no one, anywhere, should speak of the night of your curl,
there is no dawn I do not argue with the breeze.
I am grieved at my own troubled fortune; otherwise
there is no one else who has no share of your street.
Ashamed before your sweet lip, O fountain of honey,
there is no sugar now that is not drowned in water and sweat.
It is not wise for the secret to fall out from behind the veil;
otherwise, in the gathering of the rends, there is no news that is not known.
In the desert of your love, the lion becomes a fox:
ah, this road, where there is no danger that is not met!
The water of my eyes, which owes a debt to the dust of your door:
there is no door's dust that is not a hundred times in its debt.
Of my existence some name and trace remains, it is true;
otherwise, from weakness, there is nothing left of me at all.
Apart from this one point, that Hafez is displeased with you,
there is no virtue that is not in the whole of your being.