غزل شمارهٔ 95

Ever intoxicated keepeth me the waft of air of the tress-curl of Thine. Momently ruined maketh me the deceit of the eye of sorcery of Thine.

O Lord! after such patience, one can see a night Whereon, we may kindle the candle of our eye in the prayer-arch of the eye-brow of Thine.

The black tablet of vision, I hold dear for the sake That to the soul, it is a book of the picture of the dark mole of Thine.

If Thou wish perpetually to adorn the world altogether Tell the breeze that it should uplift awhile the veil from the face of Thine.

And if Thou wish to cast out from the world the custom of effacement. Scatter that it may shed thousands of souls from every hair of Thine.

Wretched, I and the morning breeze; two heads, revolving without profit: Intoxicated, I, from the sorcery of the eye of Thine; it, from the perfume of the tress of Thine.

O excellent! the spirit that Hafez hath of this world and of the next world Naught cometh into his eye, save the dust of the head of the street of Thine.