غزل شمارهٔ 31

What men of our closed circle call “the Night of Power” to-night is. O Lord! from what constellation, this effect of fortune is?

In order that the hand of those unfit may rarely reach Thy trees, Every heart, in the circle, in the prayer of “O Lord! O Lord!” is.

I am one slain by Thy chin-dimple. For, from every side, Beneath Thy chin-dimple, many a neck of souls is.

My horseman, the mirror-holder of whose face is the moon, The crown of the lofty sun, the dust of the hoof of his steed is.

Behold the reflection of sweat on His cheek! For the sun, ardent of face. As long as it is, daily in desire of this sweat, ardent is.

I will not abandon the ruby lip of the Beloved, nor the wine-cup, Zaheds! hold me excused: for, my religious order, this is.

Who beneath his eye dischargeth an arrow at my heart, In the smile beneath His lip the life-sustenance of Hafez is.

The water of life trickleth from the beak of my eloquence. In God’s name! what a lofty drinker the black crow of my pen is!