From the Divan of Hafez, Translation: Jila Peacock
Until your hair falls through the fingers of the breeze
My yearning heart lies torn apart with grief
Black as sorcery, your magic eyes
Render this existence an illusion
The dusky mole encircled by your curls,
Is like the ink-drop falling in the curve of J,
And wafting tresses in the perfect garden of your face,
Drop like a peacock falling into paradise.
My soul searches for the comfort of a glance,
Light as the dust arising from your path.
Unlike the dust, this earthly body stumbles,
Failing at your threshold, falling fast.
Your shadow falls across my frame,
Like the breath of Jesus over withered bones.
And those who turn to Mecca as their only haven,
Now at the knowledge of your lips tumble at the tavern door.
O precious love, the suffering of your absence and lost Hafez
Fell and fused together with the ancient pact.