If his hand pulls my reins, I will not resist

And if he shoots an arrow at me, I will accept it with gratitude

Tell the bow of your eyebrow to shoot an arrow

So that I may die before your hand and arm

If the sorrow of the world brings me down

What else but a goblet can be my support?

Rise, O sun of the morning of hope

For I am a captive in the hands of the night of separation

Come to my aid, O elder of the tavern

Make me young with a single sip, for I am old

Last night I swore by your tresses

That I will not raise my head from your feet

Burn this cloak of piety, O Hafez

For even if I become fire, I will not take it