The line of the beloved's mole, which the moon borrowed from her

It is a delightful ring, but there is no way to enter through it

The beloved's eyebrow is the corner of the prayer niche of fortune

There, rub your face and ask for your needs from her

O sip-drinker of Jam's assembly, keep your heart pure

For the goblet is a mirror, the world-seer, alas, from it

The deeds of the monastery's inhabitants made me a wine-worshipper

See this smoke, for my letter became black from it

The sultan of sorrow, whatever he can do, say and do

I have taken refuge with the wine-sellers from him

O cupbearer, keep the lamp of wine on the path of the sun

Say, light the torch of dawn from it

Sprinkle water on the record of our deeds

Perhaps the letters of sin can be erased from it

Hafez, who made the minstrel's instrument the instrument of lovers

May this gathering place never be empty of him

Is it in this imagination that the beggar of the city holds

That one day the king will remember him