Audio recordings
This page shows only audio recordings by افسر آریا.
Ghazaliyat by Hafez, in audio recordings by افسر آریا
Without the sun of Thy cheek, light for my day, hath remained not And of my life, save the blackest night, aught hath remained not.
Though wine is joy exciting! and the breeze rose-enslaving, Drink not wine to the sound of the harp. For bold the Muhtaseb is.
To utter to thee the state of my heart is my desire: To hear news of my heart is my desire.
Now that in the palm of the rose, is the cup of pure wine, In it praise, is the nightingale with a hundred thousand tongues.
The rose is in the bosom; wine in the hand; and the Beloved to my desire, On such a day, the world’s Sultan is my slave.
From the wine’s sparkle, the Sufi knew the hidden mystery: Every one’s essence, by this ruby thou canst know.
The garden of lofty Paradise is the retreat of Darvishes: Grandeur’s source is the service of Darvishes.
In the snare of Thy tress, my heart entangled of itself is. Slay with a glance; for to it, punishment of itself is.
Since the presentation of skill before the Beloved disrespect, is The tongue, silent; yet, the mouth full of Arabia is.
From the city, my moon went this week; to my eye a year it is: The state of separation what knowest thou how difficult the state is?
A gazer, save upon Thy face, the pupil of our eye is not. A remembrancer save of Thee, our overturned heart is not.
From the ray of Thy face, luminous a glance is not. that is not: The favor of the dust of Thy door, on an eye is not, that is not.
The sleep of that thy seducing eye without something is not : The curl of that thy dishevelled tress, without something is not.
Save Thy threshold, my shelter in the world is none. Save this door, my fortress-place is none.
Thou sawest that, save the desire of violence and of tyranny, my beloved aught had not. He shattered the covenant; and, on account of our grief, grief had not.
Now, that the fragrant breeze of Paradise bloweth from the rose garden. I and the wine, joy-giving and the Beloved angel.
If from the hand of Thy musky tress, a fault passed, it passed: And, if against us from Thy dark mole, an act of tyranny passed, it passed.
O Saki! bring wine; for the fasting month hath passed. Give the goblet; for the season of name and fame hath passed.
From His lip of ruby, a draft we tasted not; and He departed: His face, moon of form, we beheld not to our fill; and He departed.
Saki! come; for the true Beloved hath taken up the veil, The work of the lamp of the Khilvatis again kindled.
O hidden from sight! to God, I entrust, thee. Thou consumedest my soul; yet with heart, friend I hold thee.
My Lord! sweetly, Thou goest in so much that in Thee, head to foot (altogether) I die : My Bold One ! sweetly, Thou movest ; before Thee, I die.
What kindness it was when, suddenly, the dropping of thy pen Represented the obligations of our service according to the goodness of thee.
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.
For our pain, is no remedy, Justice! For our separation is no end, Justice !
From all the heart-ravishers, it is fit that thou (O Muhammad) shouldest take tribute ; For, over all lovely ones (prophets), thou, crown-like, art chief.
If, in thy religious order, the (shedding of the) blood of the lover is lawful (to us it is lawful) : Our rectitude is all that which is thy rectitude.
My heart, in desire of the face of Farrukh, Is in confusion like the hair of Farrukh.
Yesterday, the Pir, the wine-seller whose mention be for good! Said: “Drink wine; and, from recollection, take the heart’s grief.”
Wine and hidden pleasure, what are they? Baseless work. On the ranks of profligates we dashed. What is fit to be-be!
Last night, the news of the beloved, journey-made, gave the wind: To the wind, I also give my heart. Whatever it be-be.
The day of union of friends remember: Those times, remember, remember!
The sun of every vision, Thy beauty be More beautiful than the beauty, Thy beautiful face be.
If, to limit, the Sufi drink wine to him, sweet may it be! If not, the thought of this work of his, forgotten be!
O Lord! the ball of the sky in the curve of the polo of thine be: The place of existence and of dwelling the space of the plain of thine be!
Elderly of head, into my head youthful love, hath fallen: And that mystery that, in the heart, I concealed, out hath fallen.
When, into the mirror of the cup, the reflection of Thy face fell, From the laughter of wine, into the crude desire of the cup, the Aref fell.
Last night, to the rose, the violet spake; and a sweet trace gave, Saying: “In the world, me, torment a certain one’s tress gave.”
Plant the tree of friendship, that, to fruit, the heart’s desire bringeth: Up-pluck the bush of enmity, that countless troubles bringeth.
That one that, in his vision, the beauty of the line of the Beloved hath; Certain it is that the acquisition of vision he hath.
That one who, in his hand the cup hath. Ever the sovereignty of Jamshid hath.
That heart that is the hidden-displayer; and that the cup of Jamshid hath, For a seal ring, that awhile became lost, what grief it hath?
I have an idol that, the canopy of the hyacinth around the rose hath: A line in the blood of the Arghavan, the spring of his cheek hath.
Every one, who, his heart collected and the beloved acceptable hath, Happiness became his fellow-companion; and fortune, his fellow-sitter, he hath.
That one, from whose hyacinth lock, a great torment, ambergris hath. Again, with those heart-gone, grace and reproach hath.
That one is not the beloved, who hath a hair and a waist: Be the slave of the form of that one who, ravishingness to the highest degree, hath.
Without the Beloved’s beauty, inclination for the world, my soul hath not: O God, every one who this hath not, that hath not.
In this city is no idol that, our heart, taketh: If fortune be my friend, hence my chattels, it taketh.
If, the heart’s grief from our memory, the cup do not take. The foundation of our work, the anxiety of the vicissitudes will take.
In the morning, the nightingale told a tale to the east wind, Saying: for us what love for the face of the rose made.
