Friends, while the rose blooms, let us strive for pleasure
This is the word of the people of the heart, and let us take it to heart.
There is no kindness in anyone, and the time of joy passes
The solution is to sell our prayer rugs for wine.
Send a beautiful, joyful breeze, O God
A darling upon whose face we may drink rose-colored wine.
The celestial organ is the highwayman of the people of art
Why should we not lament this sorrow and why should we not cry out?
The rose has blossomed, and we have not given it water from wine
Therefore, we boil with the fire of deprivation and desire.
We drink an imaginary wine from a tulip-shaped goblet
May the evil eye be far, for we are intoxicated without music or wine.
Hafez, to whom can one tell this strange state, that we
Are nightingales who are silent in the season of the rose?