غزل شمارهٔ 196

Those Mursheds, who, with their glance alchemy of the dust make, At us, eye-cornering, do they make?

My pain concealed from the claimant’s physician, best: It may be that, its remedy from the treasury of the hidden, they make.

Since the Beloved uplifteth not the veil from His face, Why doth every one, in imagination, a tale make?

Since they carried not away the beauty of ease; and austerity is, That best that, as a favor, release of their own work, they make.

Be not without divine knowledge; for in excess of love: Bargains with the friend, people of vision make.

Now, within the screen, many a calamity goeth: At that time when the screen falleth down, let us see what they make.

If of this tale the stone bewail, hold it not wonderful; Utterance of the tale of the happy heart, those of heart make

Drink wine. For, within the screen, a hundred crimes on the part of strangers Better than a devotion which, with dissimulation and hypocrisy, they make.

The garment wherefrom cometh the perfume of Yusef It, I fear, the proud brothers rent make.

Hafez! Union is ever unattainable: God forbid! To the beggar’s state, less attention they should make.