غزل شمارهٔ 8

O Saki! arise; and give the cup: Strew dust on the head of the grief of time.

In my palm, place the cup of wine so that, from my breast, I may pluck off this patched garment of blue color.

Although in the opinion of the wise, ill-fame is ours, Not name nor fame, do we desire.

Give wine! with this wind of pride, how long, Dust on the head of useless desire?

The smoke of the sigh of my burning heart Consumed these immature ones.

Of the secret of my distraught heart, a friend, Among high and low, none, I see.

Glad is my heart with a heart’s ease, Who, from my heart, once took ease.

At the cypress in the sward, again looketh not That one, who beheld that cypress of silvern limb.

Hafez! day and night, be patient, in adversity: So that, in the end, thou mayst, one day, gain thy desire.