As much as I’ve spoken of sorrow to physicians,
They haven’t cured this poor, lonely one.
That rose that is in the hand of the wind every moment,
Tell the wind to be ashamed of the nightingales.
O Lord, grant us safety so that we may see again
The faces of our beloveds with loving eyes.
There’s no room for love in Your book of favor, O Lord
May our rivals never be satisfied.
O Bestower, at Your table of bounty,
How long shall we remain deprived?
Hafez would not have become a lover of the world
If he had listened to the advice of the wise.