If someone rises up against me for sitting with my beloved
I will drink wine from the cup of union, and pluck flowers from the garden of pleasure.
The bitter wine of the Sufi’s burning will seek to consume my foundation
Place your lips on mine, O cupbearer, and take my sweet life.
Perhaps I will become mad in this delusion, that night and day
I speak to the moon, and see fairies in my dreams.
Your lips gave sugar to the intoxicated, and your eyes gave wine to the drinkers
I am the one who, out of extreme deprivation, am neither with one nor the other.
Like any soil that the wind carries, I have received a blessing from your bounty
Remember the state of your servant, who is your old servant.
Not everyone who composes a verse has a pleasing word
Take my swift gazelle-like steps.
If you do not believe it, ask the Chinese portrait painter
For a new copy from my inky pen.
Loyalty and truthfulness are not the work of everyone
I am the slave of the second Asaf, the glory of truth and religion.
Hear the secrets of intoxication and roguery from me, not from a preacher
For with cup and goblet, I am every moment the companion of the moon and Venus.