poem

O cupbearer, pour the wine and pass it to me.
Love seemed easy at first,
but then the difficulties appeared.

For the scent of a musk-like lock of hair,
that the morning breeze may one day release,
how much blood has been spilled
in the hearts of lovers.

How can I feel safe and joyful in the beloved’s land,
when every moment
the bell cries out:
Prepare to depart.

Color your prayer mat with wine, if the elder of the tavern tells you so,
for the true seeker
is never unaware
of the ways and stations of the path.

A night, fear of the waves, and a terrifying whirlpool—
How could those lightly resting on the shore
ever know our state?

All my self-willed desires led me, at last, to disgrace.
How could a secret remain hidden
when gatherings are made from it?

If you seek true presence, do not be absent from the Beloved, O Hafez.
When you meet the one you love,
leave the world behind
and let it go.

Where is true righteousness, and where am I—so broken?
See how vast the distance is
from where I stand
to where perfection lives.

My heart grew tired of the cloister and the robe of hypocrisy.
Where is the tavern of truth,
and where is pure wine?

What connection do piety and virtue have with wild freedom?
Where is the sermon’s dry sound,
and where is the melody of the heart?

What can an enemy’s heart know of the beloved’s face?
Where is a dead lamp,
and where is the sun’s flame?

If the dust of your doorstep is the kohl of our sight,
then tell us—
where else should we go but here?

Do not be deceived by the apple of the chin; a well lies ahead.
Where are you rushing, my heart?
Where are you going so fast?

It is gone—may the days of union be remembered with sweetness.
Where did that gentle glance go,
and where did that tender reproach disappear?

Do not expect calm or sleep from Hafez, my friend.
What is rest?
What is patience?
And where is sleep, at all?