Who, to thy cheek, the hue of the rose and of the wild rose gave, To me, miserable, patience and ease, can give.
Who taught thy tress the habit of being long, To me, grief-stricken, the gift of His liberality, can also give.
Hope of Farhad, I severed that very day, When, to Shirin’s lip, the rein of his distraught heart, he gave.
If be not the treasure of gold, contentment is left: Who, to kings that gave, to beggars this gave.
A fine bride, outwardly, is the world. But, Who joined himself to her, his own life the dowry gave.
After this, My hand and my skirt; the cypress and the marge of the stream, Especially, now, that, glad tidings of February, the wind gave.
In the hand of grief for Time, Hafez’s heart became blood: O Khwajeh Kavam ud Din! for separation from thy face, justice!
