غزل شمارهٔ 376

Friends ! in the rose-season, that best that " for pleasure we strive : " (This) the word of the Pir of the Magians (the murshid) is. With soul, let us listen.

In none, is liberality (that we may have even a groat wherewith to drink wine) passeth joy's time : Its remedy is this, for wine, the prayer-mat, we sell.

Tis a pleasant air, joy-giving. O God ! send One of gracious form, to whose face, wine, rose of hue, we may drink.

One of skill (Zuhra) is the organ-player of the sky, highway-robber : Of this grief, bewail we not how ? and clamour we not, why?

Into tumult (of blossom), came the rose ; and its lustre, we dashed not with wine, Therefore, with the fire of regret and of desire, we clamour.

From the tulip's cup, illusory wine we draw ; Far, the evil eye ! For without the minstrel and wine, distraught are we.

Hafiz! to whom can one utter this wonderful state? For, we Are bulbuls that, in the rose-season, silent are.