For over forty years, I’ve boasted
That I am the least of the old wine-seller’s servants.
Never, thanks to the affection of the old wine-seller,
Has my cup been empty of clear, bright wine.
Due to the rank of love and the wealth of pure dervishes,
The head of the gatherings has always been my dwelling.
Do not suspect that I am unworthy of enduring pain
For though my robe is stained, my heart is pure.
O royal falcon, what is this state?
That they have forgotten the air of my perch.
It is a pity that a nightingale like me is now in this cage
With this sweet tongue, now silent as a lily.
The air and climate of Fars is strangely base-breeding
Where is a companion? That I may strike my tent from this soil.
Hafez, how long will you carry a cup beneath your robe?
I will lift the veil from your affairs at the master’s banquet.
O auspicious Turan Shah, in me, the Yazid of virtue
Has made your favors a collar around my neck.