If, to limit, the Sufi drink wine to him, sweet may it be! If not, the thought of this work of his, forgotten be!
That one who can give up a single draft of wine, With the Beloved of his desire his hand in his bosom, be.
Said our Pir: “On the Creator’s pen, passed no error:” On his pure sight, error-covering, afarin be!
The King of the Turkans heard the speech of the adversaries: Of the oppression of Siyawash, his a great shame be!
Although, through pride, he uttered no word to me, the poor darvish; A ransom for His sweet, silent, pistachio nut, my life be!
Of the number of mirror-holders of his line and mole, my eye became: Of the number of the kiss-snatchers of his bosom and back, my lip be.
The intoxicated narcissus, favor-doer, ma n-preserver; If it drink lover’s blood in a goblet, to it sweet may it be!
Hafez! in thy service, the world became famous: In its ear, the ring of service of thy tress, be!
