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Persian with Rumi




'Hafiz: Tongue of the Hidden',
Poems from the Divan, by Paul Smith


My Monarch, You walk so well, head at Your Feet: I die;
My Turk, You sway sweetly, before You, complete: I die.

You said: "When will you die before Me?" Why hurry?
You entreat O so sweetly, but before You repeat: I die.

I'm lover, drunk, exiled; where is Winebringer's form?
Sway You fine fair form this way; when I see it: I die.

Should You, causing lifetime's illness through separation,
Enhance me one glance from eye's dark grey seat: I die.

You said: "My ruby lip dispenses pain and sweet remedy.
Before pain came, and before Your remedy sweet: I die.

You sweetly sway: may the evil eyes never see Your face.
I find one thought in my mind: that at Your feet, I die.

Although Hafiz's place isn't Your Secret Place of Union,
All Your places please; before Your places replete: I die.




I'am drunk with grief of love for Winehouse Friend of mine:
On my wounded heart You glance arrows of grief's design.

If that cross at that tip of the end of Your hair You show,
O may is the Muslim corrupted by this infidelity so fine.

To You I join; from anything but You, I'll sever the heart:
Your lover does neither to stranger nor to relative incline.

Kindly grant a gracious glance to me whose heart is lost;
Without lover does neither to stranger nor to relative incline.

Kindly grant a gracious glance to me whose heart is lost;
Without help of Your grace my work is at end of its line.

If you ruby lip pours out salt on my poor wounded heart,
O Rule of Beauty's realm, where finally does hurt incline?

Before and behind me Your intoxicated eye lay in ambush;
To the wind, the harvest of all my patience it did consign.

From mouth's box of honey lay a lotion on Hafiz's heart,
For it's bleeding from that knifelike glance, a stinging sign.




To us intoxicated lovers glance our way, more than this;
To Winehouse door show the pathway, more than this.

Thank You for the grace that flows to use form Your lip,
It's wonderful, but give a little more I say: more than this.

To that One Who simplifies this crazy mixed-up world,
Say: 'Make explanation in a subtle way, more than this'.

How can I not lay my heart at such beautiful young feet?
Time never birthed beauty on any day, more than this.

The critic said to me: 'Besides grief, what is from love?'
'Wise sir,' I said, 'it has meaning today, more than this.'

'Take up the cup' I say, 'drink away and kiss the lip;'
For my soul, answer none could say, more than this.

The reed of Hafiz's pen is a sweet branch of sugarcane;
Take it, in garden no fruit is a higher pay, more than this.



Further reading:

'Hafiz: Tongue of the Hidden', Poems from the Divan, Versions by Paul Smith, New Humanity Books, 1986

Poems of Hafez by Hafiz, Reza Saberi (Translator)

Drunk on the Wine of Beloved : 100 Poems of Hafiz by Hafiz, Thomas Rain Crowe (Translator)

The Spiritual Wisdom of Hafez : Teachings of the Philosopher of Love by Haleh Pourafzal, Roger Montgomery

In Wineseller's Street : Rendering of Hafez, by Hafiz, Thomas Rain Crowe (Preface) (March 1998)

The Hafez Poems of Gertrude Bell : With the Original Persian on the Facing Page (Classics of Persian Literature ; 1) by Hafiz, Gertrude Lowthian Bell, E. Denison Ross (Introduction)




Last updated: May 9, 2004