‘My wishes are fulfilled with less searching. / My lover rises with a little waiting. / His fresh moustache conquers the cosmos. / Colored by evening, his mole deceives fate.’
being, Body, deceit, fate, ghazals, God, lovers, memories, nature, scripture
You are the envy of every idol maker.
You are the moon’s forehead and Jupiter’s brow.
The moon shines when you move in the sky.
Your face is a moon on earth.
Your flattery is kind.
God almighty is also kind.
No one has been created like you,
equal to thousands of created beings.
Pass a sweet moment with the slave Hasan.
Sit down, since your rival is already sitting.
These distant childhood memories are full of deceit.
Whatever is inscribed there is wrought by Him, the precious pearl.
Handwritten fragments fade in the presence of His face.
I too want to be free of what was written long ago.
My fate lies between good fortune, morning time, and my lover.
The bringer of morning brings light to my eyes.
My wishes are fulfilled with less searching.
My lover rises with a little waiting.
His fresh moustache conquers the cosmos.
Colored by evening, his mole deceives fate.
Oh, God! What is that assembly like in paradise?
Kawthar flows through the tuba tree on the bank.
One of my hands holds a cup of wine
while the other clasps my lover’s black locks.
No one searched for the drunkards.
The policemen were enraged after getting drunk.
Others leave behind gold and silver reserves.
Hasan leaves behind descriptions of his lover.
Who makes the sapling in the garden bloom?
Who makes the flower green in the garden?
Oh, Lord, send me an astronomer.
From what the sky does the sun, wandering in the evening, come?
My heart bled from the flirtation of the lover’s brows.
I recognize these arrows, and I know by whose bow they were
I know that a thousand have killed with these eyes,
but I don’t know whose spring of life that is, and whose soul
Oh, wind, you are a fresh lily’s message.
Otherwise, how could you produce such delicacy?
When the sky saw the verses of Hasan, it said to Time:
I see a stranger’s dress. I wonder whose shop sells them.
“Ghazal 11,” “Ghazal 19,” “Ghazal 50,” and “Rub??? 14,” from After Tomorrow the Days Disappear (Northwestern University Press, 2016). Translated from the Persian by Rebecca Gould.