غزل شمارهٔ 50

In the snare of Thy tress, my heart entangled of itself is. Slay with a glance; for to it, punishment of itself is.

If from Thy hand issue our heart’s desire, Be at hand: for goodness in place of itself is.

O sweet idol! by Thy soul that like a candle, In dark nights my desire, effacement of myself is.

O nightingale! when thou expressedest opinion of love, to thee, I said: “Do not; for that rose, self-going, for the sake of itself is.”

The perfume of the rose is in no need of the musk of Chin and of Chigal: For, its pods of musk from the fastenings of the coat of itself is.

Go not to the house of the Lords void of liberality of the age; For the corner of ease in the dwelling of one’s self is.

Hafez consumed; and in the condition of love and of life staking, Yet, at the head of covenant and of fidelity of himself is.