With the point of thy glance, do not hit my heart;
For, before Thy languishing eyes, I will depart
In excellence and beauty thou art rich and without peer.
Give me alms; for a miserable mendicant am I here.
Such a bird am I that every even and morn,
From the heaven above, my cry is born.
Fill up the goblet; for in the country of Love
Though old I may seem, I am a full-fledged dove.
Heart and mind so overflowed with memory of friend boon,
That, from my mind, departed the thought of self soon.
Be naught but of the minstrel and of wine:
If a word the reed of my angel design.
In the tumult of resurrection, when nobody’s nobody’s mate,
From the Magian Pir, I would fain accept all favors he’d donate.
Zealot! Like little boys, how long will you me deceive
With apple, milk and honey that in paradise I may receive?
With the wine-sellers, I have made an oath with heart and lip,
That, on the day of grief, naught but the cup of love, I sip.
O happy the moment of intoxication,
One is free from men of lofty station!
In my heart, do I hold treasures great and enow
Though an indigent, may I be called by my foe.
Of HAFIZ’s health, I forsook hope
When his Saki came to see me tope.
(Translated by Ismail Salami)