O sun, mirror of your beauty
Your black mole is a swirling censer of musk

I have washed the courtyard of my eye, but to what avail?
For this corner is not worthy of the procession of your imagination

In the height of your pride and luxury, O king of beauty
May your glory never decline until the Day of Judgment

No image is more pleasing than your portrait
Like the turbulent writing of a black eyebrow

How are you, poor heart, in the folds of her hair?
For the wayward morning breeze has described your condition

The scent of roses has risen from the door, come in
O our new spring, with your auspicious face

Until the sky is filled with the ring of our ears
Where is a coquettish glance from your crescent-shaped eyebrow?

So that I may return before fortune, offering congratulations
Where is the good tidings of the arrival of our union?

This black dot that has become the center of light
Is an image in the garden of vision, from your mole

What complaint should I make before the king?
Should I describe my need or my sorrow?

Many a headstrong soul is trapped in this snare, Hafiz
Don't scoff at my crooked desire, for it is not within your power