Oh God, don’t sit low with those in patched robes
Don’t hide your face from these disheveled revelers.
There’s much impurity in this patched robe
How pleasant is the time of those who sell wine!
I’ve seen no pain in these Sufi-like people
Who are pure wind for the pain-drinking revelers.
You are delicate and cannot bear
The heaviness of a handful of patched-robe wearers.
Since you’ve made me drunk, don’t sit hidden
Since you’ve given me poison, don’t reproach me.
Come and see the deception of these hypocrites
A blood-filled decanter and a wailing lute.
Be wary of the heart of Hafiz
For he has a heart like a boiling cauldron.