O heart, you do not pass through the alley of love

You have all the tools but do not use them

The polo mallet of fate is in your hand, but you do not strike the ball

The falcon of victory is in your grasp, but you do not hunt

This blood that surges in your liver

You do not use it for the color and scent of a painting

The creation's breath did not become fragrant like the morning breeze

Because you do not lay it on the dust of the friend's alley

I fear you will not take a sleeve of flowers from this garden

Because you do not endure the thorn from its garden

In the sleeve of your soul, there are a hundred musk pouches

But you do not sacrifice them for a beloved's lock of hair

You cast the delicate and delightful goblet and wine to the ground

And do not consider the calamity of hangover

Hafez, go, for serving the king of the time

Even if everyone does it, you will not do it