غزل شمارهٔ 123

Wonderful harmony and great melody, my minstrel of love hath: Every picture of the hidden that he striketh, path to place hath.

Void of the wailing of lovers, be not the world: For a note, pleasant of melody and joy-giving, it hath.

Although neither gold, nor force, hath our Pir, dreg-drinking, Happily, a God sin-forgiving, error-covering, he hath.

Keep my heart great. For this sugar-worshipping fly, Since Thy desire it became, the pomp of the Homa hath.

Far from justice it is not, if of his state inquireth That King, who, in his neighborhood, a beggar hath.

To the physicians, I showed my bloody tears. They said: ‘Tis love’s pain; and the remedy, “the burning of the liver hath.”

The tyranny of the glance, learn not. For, in love’s order, Every work, a reward; and every deed, a requital hath.

That idol of the young Christian, the wine-seller, well said: “Enjoy the joy of that person’s face, that purity, hath.”

O King! Hafez, a sitter of thy court, reciteth the fatiha; And, from thy tongue, the desire of a prayer halt.