غزل شمارهٔ 134

A nightingale drank the blood of the liver, and gained a rose: With a hundred thorns, perturbed his heart, the wind of, envy made.

In the desire of a piece of sugar, glad was the heart of the parrot; Suddenly, vain the picture of hope, decay’s torrent made.

Be his memory my eye’s cool lustre, that fruit of my heart! That easy went; and hard my work made.

O camel-driver; my load hath fallen. For God’s sake, a little help! For me, fellow-traveler with this litter, hope of kindness made.

Hold not contemptible my dusty face and watery eye: Of this straw mixed clay, our hall of joy, the azure sphere hath made.

Sigh and lamentation that, through the envious eye of the sphere’s moon, His dwelling in the niche of the tomb, the moon of bow-like eye-brow hath made.

Hafez! Shah-rokh, thou didst not; and the time of opportunity hath departed. What shall I do? Me careless, Time’s sport hath made.