غزل شمارهٔ 184

Last night I saw that the angels beat the door of the tavern, The clay of Adam, they shaped and into the mould, they cast.

The dwellers of the sacred fold of the veiling and of the abstaining of the angels, On me, dust-sitter, the intoxicating wine cast.

The load of deposit, the sky could not endure: In the name of helpless me, the dice of the work, they cast.

The wrangle of seventy-two sects, establish excuse for all When truth, they saw not, the door of feeble they beat.

Thanks to God, between me and Him, peace chanced, The cup of thankfulness, the angels, dancing, cast.

Not fire is that, whereat the candle’s flame laugheth: Fire is that, wherein the moth’s harvest they cast.

From off thought’s face, none hath drawn the veil as Hafez Since the tress-tip, the brides of speech combed.