غزل شمارهٔ 105

If, to limit, the Sufi drink wine to him, sweet may it be! If not, the thought of this work of his, forgotten be!

That one who can give up a single draft of wine, With the Beloved of his desire his hand in his bosom, be.

Said our Pir: “On the Creator’s pen, passed no error:” On his pure sight, error-covering, afarin be!

The King of the Turkans heard the speech of the adversaries: Of the oppression of Siyawash, his a great shame be!

Although, through pride, he uttered no word to me, the poor darvish; A ransom for His sweet, silent, pistachio nut, my life be!

Of the number of mirror-holders of his line and mole, my eye became: Of the number of the kiss-snatchers of his bosom and back, my lip be.

The intoxicated narcissus, favor-doer, ma n-preserver; If it drink lover’s blood in a goblet, to it sweet may it be!

Hafez! in thy service, the world became famous: In its ear, the ring of service of thy tress, be!