غزل شمارهٔ 124

That one, from whose hyacinth lock, a great torment, ambergris hath. Again, with those heart-gone, grace and reproach hath.

By the head of his own slain one, He passeth like the wind: What can one do? For, He is life; and swiftness, it hath.

From behind the screen of His tress, the moon, displaying the sun, Is a great sun that, in front, a cloud hath.

In every corner, my eye made flowing a torrent of tears, So that, with a great water, freshness, Thy straight cypress hath.

In error, Thy bold glance sheddeth my blood; Be its opportunity; for a very correct judgment it hath.

If that be the water of life, that the lip of my Beloved hath, Clear this is that a share of the mirage, Khizr hath.

On account of my heart, Thy intoxicated eye desireth my liver: The Bold one is intoxicated. Perchance, inclination for a piece of roast meat, He hath.

The path of questioning Thee is not my sick soul’s: Happy that shattered one who, an answer from the Beloved, hath.

Towards Hafez’s wounded heart, when a glance casteth Thy intoxicated eye, that, in every corner, a ruined one hath.