غزل شمارهٔ 133

The Sufi laid the snare; and open, the cover of his box, made. With the sky sorcery-playing, the structure of deceit, he made.

The sport of the sphere shattereth the egg in his cap: Because, with one of mystery, the presentments of sorcery, he made.

Saki! come. For the handsome friend of the Sufis Again, gracefully, came; and the beginning of blandishment made.

Whence is this minstrel who made the melody of Iraq; And the resolution of turning back from the path of Hejaz made?

O heart! come; let us go to the shelter of God, From whatever, the one, short of sleeve, long of hand, made.

Do no trick. For, whoever, truly played not love, Open, on the face of his heart, the door of reality, love made.

To-morrow, when the vestibule of truth becometh revealed, Ashamed the way-farer, who, illusory work made.

O partridge, pleasant strutter! where goest thou? Stand! Be not proud, the cat suddenly became truthful, and the prayer made.

Hafez! reproach not profligates. For, in eternity without beginning, Me, independent of austerity and of hypocrisy, God made.