غزل شمارهٔ 149

Save the love of those moon of face, a path my heart taketh not: To it, in every way, I give counsel; but it kindleth not.

O counsel-utterer! or God’s sake, utter the tale of the Saki’s writing: For, a picture more beautiful than this, our imagination, taketh not.

Come O beautiful Saki! Bring colorful cup. For a thought inside us, taketh better than this not.

Secretly, I drink a goblet; and, men think it a book: Wonderful if the book, this hypocrisy’s tire kindleth not.

One day, I shall burn this gilded darvish garment, Which, for a single cup, the Pir of the wine-sellers taketh not.

The pure-players have purities with wine, for the reason That in this jewel, save truthfulness a picture taketh not.

Thy face and eyes this beautiful, you say forget it. Go! This meaningless scold enters my head not.

The counsel-utterer of profligates, who hath war with God’s decree His heart, I see much straitened: perhaps, the cup he taketh not.

In the midst of weeping, I laugh. Because, like the candle in this assembly, The fiery tongue is mine; but, it, it kindleth not.

How happily Thou madest prey of my heart! Of Thy intoxicated eye, I boast: For, better than this, the wild birds, a person taketh not.

In respect of our need and of the independence of the true Beloved, is speech O heart! what profit sorcery, when in the Heart-Ravisher, it taketh not.

One day, like Sekandar, I shall bring to hand that mirror, If, this tire, seize it, for a moment, it kindleth not.

O Benefactor! for God’s sake, a little pity. For, the darvish of the head of Thy Street Knoweth not another door; another Path, taketh not.

For this verse, fresh and sweet, I wonder the King of kings Why, Hafez, head to foot in gold, he taketh not.