We, without sorrow, have lost our hearts, intoxicated

We are the confidants of love and the companions of the cup of wine

Many bows of blame have been drawn against us

Until we have revealed our own affairs from the eyebrow of the beloved

O rose, you have borne the wound of the morning breeze

We are the poppies that are born with the wound

If the elder of the Magians is tired of our repentance

Say, pour the pure wine, for we are standing with excuses

The work is from you, O guide of the path, help

We give up and have fallen from the path

When I see the tulip and the cup in the midst of the affair

See this wound that we have placed on the bloody heart

You said, Hafez, what is all this color and imagination

See the wrong picture, for we are the same simple tablet