O Breeze! If thy path should chance by the Land of the Friend. Bring a fragrant waft of air from the beperfumed tress of the Friend.
By this soul that, in thanks, I will surrender my Life If thou bring to me a message from the Friend.
And, if, even so, in that Presence, no access be thine Bring a little dust for my eye from the door of the Friend.
I, The beggar, where? The longing desire for union with Him, where? alas! Perchance, in sleep, I may behold the form of the aspect of the Friend.
My pine cone-like heart is trembling like the willow, In envy of the form and the pine-like stature of the Friend.
Although, the Friend purchase us not for even a small thing, For a whole world, we sell not a single hair from the head of the Friend.
If his heart be free from the bond of grief, what then? When poor Hafez is the slave and servant of the Friend.
