Don't shoot an arrow of sorrow at my heart
For I will die before your ailing eye.
The measure of your beauty is perfect
Give me your alms, for I am poor and needy.
O ascetic, how long will you deceive me like a child
With the apple of the garden and honey and milk?
My heart is so full of my beloved
That the thought of myself is lost from my mind.
Fill the cup, for in the fortune of love
I am the lucky one of the world, though I am old.
I have made a pact with the wine seller
That on a day of sorrow, I will take nothing but a goblet.
May my scribe only record the accounts of the musician and the wine
If he draws any other design.
In this tumult where no one asks after anyone
I am grateful to the old wine-maker.
Blessed is the moment when, from the intoxication of wealth
I am free from kings and ministers.
I am that bird whose cry comes from the roof of the celestial sphere
Every morning and evening.
Like Hafez, I have a treasure within me
Even though the claimant sees me as lowly.