The Wild Deer

Hello, O wild deer of the desert, where are you?
Receiving most of my love and my care are you.

Two lone travellers, perplexed, a friendless pair;
wild beasts, whispered curses lurk here and there.

Come, so of each other’s condition we can enquire:
if we can, we will seek what the both of us desire.

For I can see that in this desert is only confusion,
having no oasis of joy, no happy green profusion.

Companions, who’ll be the companion to loners?
Explain, who will be the friend of the strangers?

Perhaps Khidr's blessed footsteps will now arrive,
for from fortunate help great deeds come alive.

Perhaps time of generous Grace Divine has come,
for: "Leave me not alone," as my sign, has come.

Awhile ago a drunken lover who was on the way,
to wayfarer crossing a land did courteously say:

"O Wayfarer, what do you have in your bag there?
Come, if it is the grain, use it as bait for a snare."

He answered him by saying this: "I have the grain;
but the Simorgh is that Prey I desire to obtain."

The other said: "How will your hand find a trace,
for we haven’t found trace of It’s nesting place?"

Don’t hand away cup of wine and base of the rose,
be careful of Time, power-drunk; be on your toes!

When that straight cypress joins with that Caravan,
with cypress-branch, watching the path is the plan.

You departed, turning my happy disposition sad:
when did companion make companion feel so bad?

You struck the sword of separation so mercilessly,
one could say acquaintanceship has ceased to be.

How could my poor offerings be possibly accepted,
when wealthy sun from purse, its riches scattered?

The edge of the pool of water and bank of estuary;
a dewdrop, then talk to oneself about a memory.

Remembering the departed, remembering friends,
be in sympathy with what the April cloud sends.

When the running water is weeping before you,
give it some help; the water of your eye pour too.

No courtesy at all did the old friend to me display:
O Muslims, Muslims, for God’s sake help today!

Over my head the water of separation has passed:
in this condition, courtesy is unfit to be grasped.

Perhaps auspicious feet of Khidr can help convey
these lonely forms to those forms long gone away.

Why do I try so hard to change my own destiny?
From the star of my Fate, why do I try to flee?

From now on I take path of the Friend’s street:
if I die in that Path, then my death I will greet.

The exiled strangers who hear of my condition,
will above my dust sit for awhile in meditation.

Here, They scorch the wings of Gabriel with fire,
so that children who play with fire can admire.

Who has the power to speak, to say a word here?
O Lord, in this valley, is freedom’s sword here?

Go Hafiz, and stop filling space talking of this:
make your speech short, for God, knowing all is.

... Book of the Winebringer, Mathnawi of Hafiz