At dawn, a traveler in a strange land
Was saying this riddle to a companion
“O Sufi, wine becomes pure only when
It has matured for forty days in a bottle”
God is a hundred times disgusted with that robe
That has a hundred idols in its sleeve
Although generosity is a nameless quality
Make a request of the beautiful one
Your reward will be, O owner of the harvest
If you show mercy to the grape picker
I see no joy of life in anyone
Neither a cure for a heart nor a remedy for religion
Hearts have become dark, perhaps from the unseen
A hermit will kindle a light
If there’s no Solomon’s finger
What good is a ring?
Although it is the custom of the beautiful to be harsh
What if they were to reconcile with sadness?
Show me the way to the tavern so I may ask
About the fate of myself through foresight
Neither Hafez has the presence of a private lesson
Nor the wise man has certain knowledge