In the morning, the nightingale told a tale to the east wind, Saying: for us what love for the face of the rose made.
If drew aside the veil of the rose and the tress of the hyacinth: The knot of the coat of the rose-bud, loose it made.
In every direction the lover nightingale in lament: In the midst, joy, the morning breeze made.
For that color of face, He cast into my heart the blood: And from this rose-bed, entangled in the thorn me made.
Be that breeze of the morning pleasant to Him, Who, the remedy for the grief of the night’s sitters made.
Of strangers, ever I bewail not; For whatever He made that Friend made.
If of the Soltan, I formed expectation, a fault it was: If of the Heart-Ravisher, I sought fidelity, tyranny He made.
I am the slave of resolution of that graceful one, Who, without dissimulation and hypocrisy, the work of liberality made.
To the Street of the wine-sellers, the glad tidings take That repentance of austerity and of hypocrisy, Hafez hath made.
On the part of the respected ones of the city, fidelity to me, The perfection of faith and of fortune, the Father of Fidelity made.
