The Door of Longing

بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

خیالِ رویِ تو در هر طریق همرهِ ماست
نسیمِ مویِ تو، پیوندِ جانِ آگهِ ماست

به رَغمِ مدّعیانی که منعِ عشق کنند
جمالِ چهرهٔ تو، حجّتِ موجّهِ ماست

ببین که سیبِ زنخدانِ تو چه می‌گوید
هزار یوسفِ مصری، فتاده در چَهِ ماست

اگر به زلفِ درازِ تو، دستِ ما نرسد
گناهِ بختِ پریشان و دستِ کوتهِ ماست

به حاجبِ درِ خلوت‌سرایِ خاص بگو
فُلان ز گوشه‌نشینانِ خاکِ درگهِ ماست

به صورت از نظر ما اگر چه محجوب است
همیشه در نظرِ خاطرِ مرفّهِ ماست

اگر به سالی حافظ دری زَنَد، بگشای
که سال‌هاست که مشتاقِ رویِ چون مهِ ماست

Meaning:

The image of your face walks with us on every path.

The breeze of your hair is the bond of our awakened soul.

Even if claimants forbid love,

the beauty of your face is our rightful proof.

See what the apple of your chin says:

a thousand Josephs of Egypt have fallen into our well.

If our hand cannot reach your long tress,

the fault is our scattered fortune and our short reach.

Tell the chamberlain at the door of the private chamber:

so-and-so is one of those sitting in the dust of our threshold.

Though outwardly he is hidden from our sight,

he is always present in the sight of our gracious heart.

If Hafez knocks at a door even once in a year, open it,

for he has long been longing for our moon-like face.

Language:

Persian / Farsi

Transliteration:

Khayāl-e rūy-e to dar har tarīq hamrah-e māst
Nasīm-e mūy-e to, peyvand-e jān-e āgah-e māst

Be raghm-e modda‘iyānī ke man‘-e ‘eshq konand
Jamāl-e chehreh-ye to, hojjat-e movajjah-e māst

Bebīn ke sīb-e zanakhdān-e to che mīgūyad
Hezār Yūsof-e Meṣrī, fotādeh dar chah-e māst

Agar be zolf-e derāz-e to dast-e mā naresad
Gonāh-e bakht-e parishān o dast-e kūteh-e māst

Be hājeb-e dar-e khalvat-sarāy-e khāṣṣ begū
Folān ze gūsheh-neshīnān-e khāk-e dargah-e māst

Be sūrat az nazar-e mā agar che mahjūb ast
Hamīsheh dar nazar-e khāter-e moraffah-e māst

Agar be sālī Hāfez darī zanad, bogshāy
Ke sāl-hāst ke moshtāq-e rūy-e chūn mah-e māst

Origins:

These lines are from Hafez, Ghazal number 23. Ganjoor presents the ghazal under Hafez’s Ghazaliyat, gives it as seven couplets, and lists its metre as مفاعلن فعلاتن مفاعلن فعلن. (Ganjoor)

Brief Explanation:

This ghazal is about longing.

But it is not a weak longing.

It is a longing that has memory, proof, humility, and patience.

Hafez begins with the face of the beloved:

خیالِ رویِ تو در هر طریق همرهِ ماست

The beloved may not be outwardly present, but the image of the beloved’s face is present on every path.

That matters.

There is an absence that leaves the heart empty.

But there is also an absence that makes the inner eye more awake.

Hafez is speaking of that second kind. The beloved is not simply remembered as a past event. The beloved is walking with him. The image has become a companion.

In education, in worship, in friendship, and in the moral life, this is important. What we carry inwardly shapes the road outwardly. A child who carries fear sees one kind of world. A child who carries trust sees another. A teacher who carries resentment enters the classroom in one way. A teacher who carries reverence enters in another.

The inner image walks with us.

Then Hafez says:

نسیمِ مویِ تو، پیوندِ جانِ آگهِ ماست

The breeze of the beloved’s hair is the bond of the awakened soul.

This is a beautiful phrase: جانِ آگه — the aware soul.

Love, for Hafez, is not only emotion. It is awareness. It wakes something. It joins the soul to something finer than habit, noise, and self-importance.

That is why the next couplet turns toward the people who forbid love:

به رَغمِ مدّعیانی که منعِ عشق کنند
جمالِ چهرهٔ تو، حجّتِ موجّهِ ماست

There are always مدّعیان — claimants.

People who claim seriousness but have little tenderness.

People who claim religion but fear beauty.

People who claim wisdom but have never been softened by love.

They forbid love because love cannot be fully controlled. It breaks the pride of the self. It makes the clever person humble. It makes the rigid person tremble. It makes the one who thought he knew himself discover that the heart has deeper rooms.

Hafez answers them with one clean argument:

Beauty itself is the proof.

Not noise.

Not argument.

Not display.

Beauty.

The beloved’s face becomes حجّتِ موجّه — a rightful proof, a valid argument.

This is very close to the work of education. A child does not love goodness merely because goodness is commanded. The child must also see its beauty. Truth must have a face. Mercy must have a tone. Discipline must have dignity. Cleanliness must be visible. Reverence must be felt in the room.

Beauty becomes proof.

Then Hafez gives one of the most striking images:

ببین که سیبِ زنخدانِ تو چه می‌گوید
هزار یوسفِ مصری، فتاده در چَهِ ماست

The beloved’s chin is like an apple.

But the dimple of the chin is also like a well.

So Hafez brings Yusuf into the image. Yusuf, known for beauty, was cast into a well. Here, a thousand Egyptian Josephs have fallen into the well of the beloved’s chin.

This is not merely exaggeration. It is Hafez’s way of saying that the usual measures have failed.

When beauty becomes too great, comparison breaks.

Even Yusuf is no longer enough.

This is the nature of real beauty. It makes our ordinary measures feel small. A truly noble act can do this. A sincere apology can do this. A quiet sacrifice can do this. A teacher protecting a weak child can do this. A person forgiving when he had the power to humiliate can do this.

We suddenly see that goodness is deeper than our usual language.

The next couplet is full of humility:

اگر به زلفِ درازِ تو، دستِ ما نرسد
گناهِ بختِ پریشان و دستِ کوتهِ ماست

If our hand cannot reach your long hair, the fault is ours.

Our fortune is scattered.

Our hand is short.

Hafez does not blame the beloved.

This is important.

There is a kind of longing that becomes accusation. It says: because I cannot reach, the beloved must be cruel. Because I cannot possess, the world must be unfair. Because I am not admitted, the door must be wrong.

Hafez does not speak like that here.

He says: my hand is short.

There is moral beauty in this.

A person who can see his own limitation is already closer to wisdom. The child who says, “I was wrong,” has opened a door. The adult who says, “My anger was too much,” has opened a door. The teacher who says, “My expectation was right, but my tone was not clean,” has opened a door.

A short hand can become longer through humility.

But a proud hand remains short, even when it reaches far.

Then the ghazal moves to the door:

به حاجبِ درِ خلوت‌سرایِ خاص بگو
فُلان ز گوشه‌نشینانِ خاکِ درگهِ ماست

There is a private chamber.

There is a door.

There is a chamberlain.

And there is someone sitting in the dust of the threshold.

This is the image of waiting.

Not every door opens quickly.

Not every longing is answered at once.

Not every prayer is given its visible fruit immediately.

The lover is not inside. He is at the threshold. He does not announce himself with pride. He says فُلان — so-and-so. As if his name is not the important thing. His position is the important thing.

He is one of those who sit in the dust.

This dust matters.

In Persian poetry, the dust of the beloved’s door is not humiliation in the ugly sense. It is the place where pride is lowered. It is where the self stops demanding to be central. It is where waiting becomes part of purification.

A school also has thresholds.

A child may stand at the threshold of reading for a long time.

Another at the threshold of truthfulness.

Another at the threshold of self-control.

Another at the threshold of prayer.

Another at the threshold of trust.

We should not despise the one who is still at the door.

Some souls are not far because they are careless. Some are near because they are waiting with sincerity.

Then comes the tender answer:

به صورت از نظر ما اگر چه محجوب است
همیشه در نظرِ خاطرِ مرفّهِ ماست

Outwardly, he is hidden from sight.

Inwardly, he is remembered.

This is one of the gentlest meanings in the ghazal.

There is the sight of the eye.

And there is the sight of the heart.

The eye may not see the one at the door, but the heart has not forgotten him.

This gives comfort.

Many good efforts are hidden. A child may be trying inwardly while outwardly still failing. A teacher may be carrying a concern no one praises. A parent may be making quiet sacrifices that are never noticed. A student may be fighting a private battle to become better.

Outwardly, much is hidden.

But not everything hidden is lost.

The final couplet brings Hafez himself into the poem:

اگر به سالی حافظ دری زَنَد، بگشای
که سال‌هاست که مشتاقِ رویِ چون مهِ ماست

If Hafez knocks even once in a year, open the door.

Why?

Because he has been longing for years.

This is a beautiful balance.

The knock may be rare.

But the longing is old.

That matters for how we look at people.

Sometimes a person shows only one small sign of return. One question. One apology. One moment of softness. One attempt after many failures. One knock after a long silence.

A harsh person may ignore it.

A wise person opens.

Not because the knock is loud.

Because the longing behind it may be deep.

This is important in homes and schools. A child who has resisted for months may one day show one small opening. If the adult is proud, he may say, “Now you come?” But if the adult has a generous heart, he opens the door.

Some doors should not be guarded by ego.

They should be opened by mercy.

A note about the wording:

The repeated ending ماست gives the ghazal its music.

It can mean “is ours.”

It can also mean “is with us.”

This repetition gathers the poem around belonging.

The image of your face is with us.

The breeze of your hair is our bond.

Your beauty is our proof.

The well of your chin is ours.

The fault is ours.

The threshold is ours.

The gracious remembrance is ours.

The moon-like face is ours.

But the “we” is not simple. Sometimes it feels like the lover speaking. Sometimes it feels like the beloved’s royal voice. This movement is part of the beauty of the poem. The lover seeks the beloved, but the beloved’s presence has already entered his speech.

The distance remains.

But so does nearness.

Moral Use:

These lines are useful when we think about longing, patience, and the way we respond to small signs of return.

Before closing a door.

Before judging a person who is still outside.

Before dismissing a child who has only begun to try.

Before saying, “It is too late.”

Before refusing a small knock.

They ask:

What image walks with me?

Do I carry beauty inwardly, or only complaint?

Do I allow beauty to become proof?

Do I blame others too quickly for what my own short hand cannot reach?

Can I sit at the threshold without losing dignity?

Can I notice the one who is outwardly hidden but inwardly sincere?

Can I open the door when the knock finally comes?

Hafez teaches us that longing has manners.

It remembers.

It waits.

It does not make loud claims.

It sits in the dust.

It knocks rarely, but sincerely.

And when such a longing comes to the door, the door should not remain closed.