The outward-worshipping ascetic is not aware of our state

Whatever they say about us, there's no place for resentment

In the path whatever comes to the seeker is their good

On the straight path, O heart, no one is astray

Until what play appears we'll move a pawn

The rends' chess field has no place for the king

What is this high ceiling, simple yet full of patterns

Of this riddle no sage in the world is aware

What self-sufficiency is this O Lord and what powerful wisdom

That all these hidden wounds exist yet there's no chance to sigh

Our record-keeper it seems doesn't know accounting

For in this royal seal there's no mark of 'for God's sake'

Whoever wishes may come and whatever they wish may say

Pride and coquetry and chamberlain and doorkeeper are not at this court

Going to the tavern's door is the work of the sincere

The self-sellers have no way to the wine-sellers' street

Whatever exists is from our discordant shapeless stature

Otherwise your honor's robe is not short on anyone

I'm the servant of the tavern's elder whose grace is constant

Otherwise the sheikh and ascetic's grace is sometimes there sometimes not

If Hafez doesn't sit in the chief seat it's from high-mindedness

The pain-drinking lover is not bound by wealth and position