After this, my hand and the hem of that tall cypress

That from the root and base of my being, it uproots me

There is no need for a musician or wine, unveil your veil

For your fiery face has set me dancing like a spark

No face becomes the mirror of fortune's bridal chamber

Except that face which is rubbed in the dust of the steed

I said, whatever the secrets of your sorrow are, let them be

I have no more patience, what should I do, until when and how long

Do not hunt that musk-deer, O hunter

Have shame for those black eyes and do not trap it with a snare

I am dust that cannot rise from this door

From where should I kiss the lips of that tall palace

Again, the heart's drunkards from that musky tress of Hafez

For the madman is better off being in chains