When the wine sun rises from the east of the cup

From the garden of the cupbearer's cheek, a thousand tulips bloom

The breeze at the head of the flower breaks the hyacinth bud

When from the midst of the garden, the scent of that bud arises

The tale of the night of separation is not a present story

That a summary of it can be explained in a hundred epistles

One cannot have hope from the overturned tray of the heavens

That without suffering, a hundred sorrows arise from a morsel

With one's own effort, one cannot find the gem of the purpose

It is an illusion that this work will be accomplished without a decree

If you have patience like the prophet Noah in the grief of the flood

The calamity will turn away, and the thousand-year desire will be fulfilled

When the breeze of your hair passes by Hafez's tomb

From the soil of his body, a hundred thousand tulips will bloom