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?
From the grace of her cheek, in her cheek, the pupil of my eye Beheld its own reflection; and imagined that a musky mole it is.
Milk yet droppeth from her lip like sugar, Although, in glancing, her every eyelash a slaughterer is.
O thou that art in the city the pointing-stock for generosity, Alas! in the work of strangers, wonderful thy negligence is.
After this, no doubt is mine in respect of the incomparable jewel; For, on that point, thy mouth a sweet proof is.
Glad tidings, they gave that thou wilt pass by us Change not thy good resolve; for a happy omen it is.
By what art, doth the mountain of grief of separation draw Shattered Hafez, who, through the weeping of his body, like a reed is.
