The Death Of Hafiz

A rose-tree blooms in Hafiz' garden grave,
Each day anew its crimson leaves unfold,
Each night the Bulbul weep until the dawn,
Its cadences evoke Shiraz of old.
For him, death is a land of peaceful spring,
His heart like incense permeates the years
Each night amid the cypress by his tomb
A Bulbul sings, each day a rose appears.