غزل شمارهٔ 79

Now, that the fragrant breeze of Paradise bloweth from the rose garden. I and the wine, joy-giving and the Beloved angel.

To-day, why boasteth not the beggar of empire? For his pavilion is the Cloud’s shade; and his banquet place, the field’s border.

The sward uttereth the tale of the April: No Aref is he, who purchased a loan; and let go cash.

With wine make the building of the heart. For this evil world Is bent on that it may make a brick of our dust.

From the enemy, seek not fidelity. For, a feeble ray it giveth not, When thou kindlest the candle of the cloister from the lamp of the church.

For recorded blackness, reproach not me intoxicated: Who knoweth what Fate hath written on his head?

From the bier of Hafez, keep not back thy foot: For though he be immersed in sin, he goeth to paradise.