No. 2

The smell of blood

Black curls through broken ice.

If the ascetic calls, I’m washing

the wine from my rug.

How could they know

my fear of the wave,

that summons secrets to the assembly

and pools at his feet.

No. 37

The wind is stronger

than the colours of any flag

around which you rally.

Gabriel sank to the seventh circle

where the doomsday trumpet couldn’t reach.

Told us to keep the gifthorse sweet,

and get back to work

for now the door to power is closed

and the rose unjust.

No. 66

Found myself downwind

from her house

talking to the birds

and thinking twice about my choice of robe.

A green ringlet chained behind the ears

of the good thief.

Word got out about the ruby lips,

that beauty goes

only so far towards possession.

That’s why the academy

only buys handmade

and kings struggle with ascension

why salvation must be permeable

– and you stay as you are.

No. 107

Surfeit of grace

bellcup thoughts

and a lasting dream

of citruses that know their place,

offset your way of bringing in the dawn.

A curse on the untrained eye,

the base lip broken

into your circuit soul.

No. 200

Don’t let them find you

with the harp and oud

lest they seize love’s emollient dreams

and settle its questions.

A state formed through force,

another through fate;

neither ready, when a poet, a sheikh,

and an accountant walk into a bar.

No. 319

The final verdict was victory

through opposition, calm

through chaos, like your shadow

cast cool and whole

on the house we built.

My pennance caught on wet lips

taking God at his word,

a just tyrant with a couple of restaurants.

No. 393

I lost my name

but kept my sight.

Happy faith, deaf to blame,

that lets the heathen suffer

Nobody knows about my cut-glass savour

who looks for Narcissus in the park.

No. 407

The green sky, a sudden moon

brought back bad harvests.

Through the heat, fortune wheezed

“settle” and rolled over.

But to die in grace, beaming.

Never trust anything in orbit.

Down by the river, the seven sisters

implore the sky not to sell its share.

I walk away while the pious burn

the fruits of faith.

Hafis, Hafez, Khāvdže Šams-od-Dīn Moḥamad Ḥāfeẓ-e Šīrāzī Hafez (1325-1390); perzijski lirski pesnik. Njegova dela obravnavajo kot vrhunec perzijske književnosti. Njegova dela pogosto najdemo po domovih ljudi v perzijsko govorečem svetu, njegovih pesmi se učijo na pamet in jih uporabljajo kot vsakdanje pregovore in izreke. Njegovo življenje in pesmi so postali predmet številnih raziskovanj, komentarjev in razlag. Na perzijsko pisano besedo po 14.stoletju je vplival bolj kot kateri koli drug perzijski pesnik.

Teme njegovih gazel so med drugim ljubezen, vera in izpostavljanje hinavščine. Njegova večna tema: ljubezen in vino – ekstaza in sproščenost brez spon.

Njegov grob je v rojstnem kraju Širazu. Priredbe, imitacije in prevodi njegovih pesmi obstajajo v mnogih jezikih.