Let us pass through the street of the tavern,

For we are all in need of this door for a single sip.

On the first day, when we spoke of revelry and love,

It was the condition that we follow no other path but that way.

Where the throne and seat of Jamshid are blown away by the wind,

If we sorrow, it is better to drink than to grieve.

Hoping to one day place a hand on her waist,

We sit, steeped in heart’s blood, like the red ruby.

O preacher, do not counsel the mad lovers, for we

Seek not paradise but are content with the dust of the beloved’s street.

Since the Sufis lead in ecstasy and dance,

We, too, raise a hand in playful trickery.

From your draught, the earth’s dust turned to pearls and rubies,

Yet poor us, who are even less than dust before you.

Hafez, since the path to the palace of union is closed,

We shall place our heads on the threshold dust of this door.