AT YOUR FEET I DIE
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.
~~Hafiz