I follow the decree of the Magian elder, an ancient saying,

That wine is forbidden where the beloved is not a companion.

I will tear apart this robe of hypocrisy—what else can I do?

For the soul, companionship with the unlike is a grievous torment.

Hoping that the beloved's lips may pour a drop upon me,

For years, I have dwelled at the door of the tavern.

Has my long-standing service been forgotten by her?

O morning breeze, remind her of our ancient pact.

Even if, after a hundred years, you pass by my grave,

My crumbled bones will rise from the dust, dancing.

The beloved took my heart with a hundred promises,

Seemingly, a noble character does not forget such a pact.

Tell the bud not to despair in its tight enclosure,

For it will find aid from the morning breeze and the breath of the zephyr.

O heart, seek a cure for yourself from another door,

For the lover's pain is not healed by the remedies of the sage.

Learn the gem of wisdom, for it is what you will take with you,

For gold and silver belong to others by fate.

The snare is tight unless the grace of God becomes your ally,

Otherwise, man will not triumph over the accursed Satan.

Hafez, if you lack silver and gold, what of it? Be grateful,

For what is better than the fortune of eloquent words and a sound nature?