Do not shoot the arrow of your coquetry at my heart

For I will die before your unkind eyes

The standard of beauty has reached perfection

Give me alms, for I am poor and needy

Like children, how long, O deceitful ascetic

Will you tempt me with the apple of the garden, honey, and milk?

So full has the space of my heart become with the Beloved

That the thought of myself has vanished from my mind

Fill the cup, for in the fortune of love

I am the fortunate youth of the world, though I am old

I have made a pact with the wine-sellers

That on the day of sorrow, I will take nothing but the cup

May there be no account except of the minstrel and wine

If the pen of the scribe draws a picture

In this uproar where no one asks after another

I am grateful to the elder of the Magians

Happy is the moment when, in the self-sufficiency of intoxication

I am free from the king and the minister

I am that bird who, every evening and dawn

Comes whistling from the roof of the Throne

Like Hafez, I hold his treasure in my heart

Though the claimant may see me as insignificant