I Won’t Hold His Hands, If They Cut Me With A Sword By Hafiz Shirazi

I won’t hold his hands, if they cut me with a sword
Gladly accept the arrows that towards me have soared.
The bows of your brows let their arrows fly
Dying in your bosom I can gladly afford.
The hardships of life may bring me to my knees
The hands of the wine-bearer are the hands of the Lord.
Please, please rise up, O sunshine of hope
I am trapped in the hands of separation and discord.
O wise Tavern Master, help me in my hour of need
Let the youthful life, in my old age be restored.
Upon your locks of hair, last night, I made my vows
The floor is my bed, and your lap is my head-board.
Hafiz, burn all the masks that you have worn & stored
Fire of heart then can freely come out as your word.
© Shahriar Shahriari
Los Angeles, Ca
January 29, 2000
بـه تیغم گر کشد دستش نگیرم
وگر تیرم زند مـنـت پذیرم
کـمان ابرویت را گو بزن تیر
کـه پیش دست و بازویت بمیرم
غـم گیتی گر از پایم درآرد
بـجز ساغر که باشد دستگیرم
برآی ای آفـتاب صـبـح امید
که در دست شب هجران اسیرم
بـه فریادم رس ای پیر خرابات
بـه یک جرعه جوانم کن که پیرم
به گیسوی تو خوردم دوش سوگند
کـه مـن از پای تو سر بر نگیرم
بـسوز این خرقه تقوا تو حافـظ
کـه گر آتش شوم در وی نگیرم

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