Hafez, Ghazal #3
For the Shirazi’s mole, I’d offer a
Trade of Samarkand and Bukhara.
Drink wine; in paradise there’s no rain of
Ruknabad or roses of Musalla.
Don’t mind those loafers, allergic to work,
Though Turks (real men) haul our city away.
Does the beloved need imperfect love?
Can’t true beauty see through our false aura?
Yusef grew more beautiful day by day,
Summoning secret lust of Zulaikha.
I’m glad you speak ill of me. God approves.
Bitter talk sweetens your mouth with sugar.
Children who hear the old wise man’s advice
Grow up in life earning their souls an “A.”
Solve plots of common, human narratives.
The beloved needs no interpreter.
Hafez, when you write ghazals you thread pearls,
Scattering stars in a candelabra.
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