غزل شمارهٔ 1017

A sour-faced one has come—perchance is he the bitter winter cold? Pour a winecup over his head, saki, sweet as sugar.

Either give him wine from the bottle, or send him on his way now, for it is not pleasant, boy, for an efreet to be amongst rose-cheeked beauties.

Bestow the prophetic wine, so that the ass may not continue in assishness; from Jesus’ wine two wings forthwith sprout on the ass.

If a sober heart enters the assembly of the drunkards, do not let him; you know that, in the state of drunkenness, good and evil befall the drunkard.

Watchman, sit by the door, give not admittance to our assembly save to the heart-aflame lover from whom comes the odour of a burning heart.

If you want a hand, he gives a foot; if you want a foot, he lays down his head; if you want to borrow a hoe, instead of the hoe he brings an axe.

Since I became immersed in wine I have become without shame and heart; the shield is no protection to me, I am myself as a shield before the sword.

I desire a chanter, a living water of life, to set fire to sleep and to utter this melody till dawn.

If you find one sober vein in me, pluck it out; if a man has not been a lion catcher of God, reckon him a dog in this path.

Some folk dissolute and drunk and gay, some folk slaves to the five and the six; these are apart and those are apart, these are other and those are other.

I have consumed beyond measure, for I have lost the treasure; bind my hand, bind my mouth—this is how to preserve the drunkard.

Take heed, convert our sting to honey, give ear to our lament; make us senseless like yourself, senseless look upon us.