غزل شمارهٔ 187

O heart! Consume. For deeds thy consuming maketh: The repelling of a hundred calamities, the midnight supplication maketh.

The reproach of the Beloved, Angel of face, endure like a lover: Because, compensation for a hundred of tyranny, one glance maketh.

The screen from this world to the world of angels they rend for him, Who, the service of the cup, world-displaying, maketh.

Of Jesus breath and compassionate, is the physician of love; but, When, in thee, he seeth no pain, to whom remedy he maketh.

Upon thy God, cast thou the work; keep happy of heart: For if mercy, the adversary maketh not; God maketh.

Through sleeping fortune, I am vexed. It may be that vigilance A prayer, at the time of opening of morning, maketh.

Hafez consumed; and took not the perfume of the Beloved’s tress: Perchance, the guide of this fortune of his, the wind maketh.