Last night I saw the angels knocking at the tavern door

They molded the clay of Adam and poured it into the cup

The inhabitants of the sanctuary of modesty and purity of the heavens

Sat with me and drank wine in a drunken manner

The heavens could not bear the burden of trust

They drew the lot and it fell upon me, the madman

The war of seventy-two nations, excuse them all

Since they did not see the truth, they resorted to tales

Thanks to God that peace was made between me and Him

The Sufis danced and clinked their cups in gratitude

The fire is not that from whose flame the candle laughs

The fire is that which they set in the harvest of the moth

No one like Hafez has unveiled the face of thought

Until they combed the locks of speech with the pen