Forty years have passed that I have been boasting

That I am the least of the servants of the old Magian

Thanks to the grace of the old wine-seller

My cup has never been empty of clear, pure wine

From the prestige of love and the fortune of pure-hearted rogues

The seat of the platform has always been my dwelling

Do not think ill of my suffering

Though my clothes are stained, I am virtuous

I am the royal falcon, what is this state

That they have forgotten the air of my abode

It is a pity that a nightingale like me is now in this cage

With this sweet tongue, I am silent like the lily

The climate of Fars strangely breeds the base

Where is the companion so I may lift my tent from this soil

Hafez, how long will you carry the cup under your cloak

In the master's assembly, I will unveil your work

Turanshah the blessed, who increased my grace

His favors have become the collar around my neck