غزل شمارهٔ 129

If, the heart’s grief from our memory, the cup do not take. The foundation of our work, the anxiety of the vicissitudes will take.

And if, in its intoxication, reason drag not its anchor, From this whirlpool of calamity, the bark how will it take.

Alas! with every one the sky treacherously played: Superiority over this treachery, is none who will take.

The path is by the darkness: where is the Khizr of the road? Let it not be that, our honor, the fire of disappointment should take.

Towards the sward, the feeble heart draweth me for the reason, That, by the sickness of the morning breeze, my soul from death it may take.

I am love’s physician. Drink wine. For this confection, Bringeth relief, and the thought of danger taketh.

Hafez consumed; and, to the Friend none told his state; Perchance, for God’s sake, a message, the morning breeze will take.