غزل شمارهٔ 331

If, with the sword (of tyranny), He (the true Beloved) slay me, His hand, I seize not : If, upon me, this arrow He strike, obliged I am.

(To the true Beloved) say : " At that our eyebrow, Thy arrow strike, " That, before Thy hand and arm, I may die."

If, me from off my feet, the world's grief bring, Save the cup, my hand-seizer (helper) is who?

O Sun of the morning of hope (the true Beloved) ! come forth : For, in the hand of the (dark) night of separation, captive am I.

O Pir of the tavern (the murshid excellent and perfect) ! come to my cry (for justice) : By a draught, me young make ; for old am I.

Last night, by thy tress, I ate an oath, That, my head, from off thy foot, I will not take.

Hafiz! this, thy khirka of piety, (hard as iron, void of tenderness) consume (with fire) : For (even) if a (consuming) fire I became, I should kindle it not.