غزل شمارهٔ 137
Toggle stanza 1دل از من بُرد و روی از من نهان کرد
My heart from me, He took; concealed from me, His face, Lie made: For God’s sake! with whom can this sport be made?
The night of solitariness was in design upon my soul: Endless favors, the thought of Him made.
Like the variegated tulip, why am I not bloody of heart, Since with me, the heavy head, His eye made?
With this soul-consuming pain, how may I speak, saying: “Design upon my powerless soul, the Physician made?”
As a candle, He consumed me in such a way that, on me, The flagon, weeping; and the stringed instrument, clamour made.
O wind! if thou have the remedy, this time the time: For, design upon my soul, the pain of desire made.
Among kind ones, how can one speak, Saying: “Like this my Beloved spake; like that made.”
Against the life of Hafez, the enemy would not have made that That the arrow of the eye of that eye-brow bow made.