The curve of Thy tress is the snare of infidelity and of Faith: This matter is a little from His work-shop.
Thy beauty is the miracle of beauty. But, The tale of Thy glance is clear magic.
How can one take one’s life from Thy bold eye, That ever is in ambuscade with the bow?
Be a hundred Afarin! on that dark eye, Which, in lover-slaying is the creator of magic.
A wonderful science is the science of love’s form: For the seventh sky is the seventh land.
Thou thinkest not that the evil-speaker departed, and took his life: His account is with the two noble recorders.
Hafez! be not secure from the snare of His tress. That taketh the heart; and is now in fancy religion.
