Ghazal 482

O heart, the street of Love is no more your promenade
You've packed your belongings and just sit in the shade.

Polo stick in your hands, yet you don't play the ball
The Royal hawk on your arm, yet will not hunt or raid.

Your boiling blood flows through your veins and heart
Yet you let the vision and image of your Beloved fade.

In spite of the fragrant breeze, you let your temperament freeze
The wind goes to your friend's house, yet behind you've stayed.

From this garden you don't pick any roses for yourself
Because of the thorns that now you avoid and degrade.

A hundred perfumes, you've kept stored up your sleeves
Yet not one upon the Beloved's hair you've sprayed.

You've thrown the gentle cup and tender wine away
And not think when drunk, what will come to your aid.

If slaves of everyone the Wise King has made
Hafiz, you won't yield and succumb to this trade.