غزل شمارهٔ 138

Memory be of that one, who, at the time of journeying memory of us made not: Who, by farewell, joyous our grief-stricken heart made not.

That one of youthful fortune, that dashed the writing of good acceptance, I know not why the old slave, free he made not.

The papery garment, we wash in bloody water. For, the sky, My guidance to the standard of justice, made not.

In the hope that perchance a great cry may reach Thee, the heart Made in this mountain, cries that Farhad made not.

Since the bird of the sward had taken its shadow from the sward, Its nest in the curl of the tress of the box-tree, it made not.

If from Thee, the footman of the east wind will learn work possible: For movement, swifter than this, the wind made not.

The reed of the attirer of nature draweth not the picture of desire of him Who as to this beauty, God-given, confession made not.

O Minstrel! change the note, and strike the path, of Iraq; For, in this path, the Beloved went; and of us recollection made not.

The ghazals of Iraq are the songs of Hafez: This heart-consuming path, who heard, who lamentation made not.