There is no gaze that isn't brightened by your face's radiance

There is no eye that isn't indebted to your threshold's dust

The observers of your face are the insightful ones, yes

There is no head that doesn't hold the secret of your tress

If my telltale tears came up red what wonder

There is no veil-tearer not ashamed of their deed

Until dust from its breeze settles on the hem

There is no passerby from my sight that isn't flood-raising

Until they don't speak everywhere of your tress's darkness

There is no dawn without my discourse with the morning breeze

I suffer from this disturbed fortune otherwise

There is no other who isn't benefiting from your street

From modesty before your sweet lip O fountain of nectar

There is no sugar that isn't now drowned in water and sweat

It's not expedient that the secret fall out from behind the veil

Otherwise in the rends' gathering there is no news that isn't known

The lion becomes a fox in the desert of your love

Alas for this path in which there is no danger that isn't present

My eye's water which is indebted to your door's dust

There is no threshold's dust that isn't under its hundred favors

Of my existence some name and sign exists that exists

Otherwise from weakness there is no trace there that isn't gone

Except for this point that Hafez is discontented with you

In your whole being there is no excellence that isn't present