غزل شمارهٔ 70

A gazer, save upon Thy face, the pupil of our eye is not. A remembrancer save of Thee, our overturned heart is not.

My tear bindeth the Ihram of the Tawaf of Thy sacred enclosure. Although pure blood of the blood of my wounded heart, it is not.

Be bound in the snare of the cage like the wild bird If, flying in search of Thee, the bird of Sidrah is not.

If the poor lover scattered the counterfeit coin of his heart, Censure him not, for potent as to current coin he is not.

In the end, to that lofty cypress, reacheth the hand of him, Whose spirit in search of Thee, defective is not.

Before Thee, I boast not of Isa’s life-giving; For like Thy lip, in soul-refreshing, expert he is not.

I who, in passion’s fire for Thee, express no sigh, How can one say: “As to the stains of my heart, patient He is not.”

The first day, when I beheld Thy tress-tip I spake, Saying: “End to this chain’s confusion is not.”

The desire of union with Thee alone, to Hafez’s heart is not: Who is he in whose heart desire of union with Thee is not?