غزل شمارهٔ 19

O fragrant morning breeze! The Beloved’s rest-place is where? The dwelling of that Moon, Lover-slayer, Sorcerer, is where?

Dark is the night; and in front, the path of the Valley of Aiman: The fire of Toor where? The time and the place of promise of beholding is where?

Whoever came to this world hath the mark of ruin: In the tavern, ask ye saying: “The sensible one is where?”

One of glad tidings is he who knoweth the sign: Many are the subtleties. The confidant of mysteries is where?

Every hair-tip of mine hath a thousand bits of work with Thee: We, are where? And, the reproacher, void of work, is where?

Reason hath become distraught: that musky tress, where? From us, the heart hath taken the corner: the eye-brow of the heart-possessor - is where?

The cup, and the minstrel, and the rose, all are ready. But, ease without the Beloved is not attainable. The Beloved is where?

Hafez! grieve not of the autumn wind in the sward of the world: Exercise reasonable thought. The rose without the thorn is where?