O, the wine that is in that hand, alas!

That the universal intellect is intoxicated by it, alas!

It raised the heart to that height where

The tip of Saturn's spear is low, alas!

Whoever became selfless in this gathering

Has escaped from himself and his relatives, alas!

Like the Simorgh, it flies to the peak of Qaf

Who has girded his loins before it, alas!

See the wonders that the unbroken glass

Has wounded thousands of hands and feet, alas!

You tell me to drive patience more slowly

What place is there for patience and slowness, alas!

Give that old man a cup and seat him

For an old man is needed here, alas!

Especially the soul of old age, which is reason

That it is of good essence and worthy, alas!

From that infinite garden and meadows

The whole world is like a bouquet, alas!

Since it is a bouquet, it will decay quickly

Go to a plain from which it has grown, alas!

Drink a wine in the name of the heart-stealer

That it is very beautiful and prominent, alas!

From the many bloods that it has on its neck

It has broken the collar of reason, alas!

The curls that its tresses have

Have broken the price of musk, alas!

I became silent, give it to me silently

That the heart has said it continuously, alas!