The bulbul’s care is naught but the rose is his mate dear
The rose’s care is naught but to bring grace to her cheer
Not all lure is what brings the lover’s heart to its fall
Master is he who bears compassion to his thrall.
Now comes the time when blood gushes into the ruby’s heart
For the shard hath shattered its value and worth in the mart.
The bulbul’s power of speech came from the rose’s boon
Or his beak would be devoid of all this song and tune
O thou who in the street of our Love tread
Be careful; or his wall may shatter thy head
The traveler is accompanied by a hundredfold soul
Wherever he is, health and well-being be his dole
O heart! Though the dice of health to thee was cast
Sweet is the lot of Love. Cling to it hard and fast
Intoxicated, the Sufi wore his hat askew
Two more goglets, aslant his turban flew
To the sight of thee the heart of Hafiz had been inclined
It is now cherished with union. Put this torment behind.
(Translated by Ismail Salami)