Audio recordings
This page shows only audio recordings by نازنین بازیان.
Ghazaliyat by Hafez, in audio recordings by نازنین بازیان
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!
In need of the physician’s care, thy body be not; Vexed by injury, thy tender existence be not!
Ever increasing, Thy beauty be! All years, tulip-hued, Thy face 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!
‘Tis a long time; and the Heart-possessor a message sent not; A letter, wrote not; and a salutation, sent not.
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.
Who, to thy cheek, the hue of the rose and of the wild rose gave, To me, miserable, patience and ease, can give.
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.”
The Homa of the height of felicity to the snare of ours falleth. If, Thy passing to the dwelling of ours falleth.
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.
At the time of His face, retirement from the sward, our heart hath: For, like the cypress, foot-binding it is; and like the tulip, stain it 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.
Every one, who regardeth the people of fidelity, Him, in every state, from calamity God preserveth.
Wonderful harmony and great melody, my minstrel of love hath: Every picture of the hidden that he striketh, path to place 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.
The luminosity of Thy face, the moon halt not: In comparison with Thee, the glory of grass, the rose 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.
Come; for plunder of the tray of fasting, the Turk of the sky hath made: Hint at the circulation of the cup, the new crescent moon hath made.
With the luminous liquid of wine, an Aref purification made, Early in the morning when, to the wine-house, visit he made.
The Sufi laid the snare; and open, the cover of his box, made. With the sky sorcery-playing, the structure of deceit, he made.
A nightingale drank the blood of the liver, and gained a rose: With a hundred thorns, perturbed his heart, the wind of, envy made.
Like the wind, resolution of the head of the Beloved’s street, I will make: By His pleasant perfume, my own breath, musk-raining, I will make.
Into the curve of that doubled tress, the hand one cannot put: Reliance on Thy covenant and the morning breeze, one cannot make.
My heart from me, He took; concealed from me, His face, Lie made: For God’s sake! with whom can this sport be made?
Memory be of that one, who, at the time of journeying memory of us made not: Who, by farewell, joyous our grief-stricken heart made not.
On her path, I laid my face; and by me passing, she made not. I hoped for a hundred kindnesses; yet one glance, she made not.
The Heart-Ravisher departed; and hint to those heart-gone made not: Of the companion of the city; and of the friend of the journey, recollection He made not.
O heart! the grief of love, again, thou sawest what it did, When the heart-ravisher went; and with the beloved, fidelity-observing, what it did.
Friends! repentance of veiledness, the daughter of the vine made: To the Mohtaseb she went; and by permission the work made.
Search for the cup of Jamshid from me, years my heart made. And for what it possessed, from a stranger, entreaty made.
At the head of Jamshid’s cup, at that time thy glance, thou canst make, When the dust of the wine-house, the collyrium of thy eye, thou canst make.
I know not what is the intoxication that to us its face hath brought: Who is the cup-bearer? This wine, whence hath he brought?
Last night, news to me the messenger of the morning wind brought, Saying: “To shortness, its face, the day of labor and of grief hath brought.”
When my Beloved the wine-cup in hand taketh, The market of idols, disaster taketh.
Save the love of those moon of face, a path my heart taketh not: To it, in every way, I give counsel; but it kindleth not.
If the Saki the wine into the cup, in this way cast All the Arefs into ever drinking, He will cast.
A world altogether, to pass life a single moment in grief is not worth: For wine, sell our ragged religious garment; for more than this it is not worth.
In eternity without beginning, of glory, the splendor-ray of Thy beauty boasted. Revealed became love; and, upon all the world, fire dashed.
In the morning when, his standard on the mountainous lands, the Khosro of the east pitched, With the hand of mercy, the door of hopeful ones, my beloved beat;
