If your disheveled tress falls into the hands of the morning breeze,

Wherever there is a heart, it will fall into the trap of affliction.

We have cast the ship of our patience into the sea of sorrow,

Until the end, where each plank will fall from this storm.

Everyone, with a desire, takes a divination from her face,

On the ephemeral board, until the lot falls to whom.

If I called your black tress the musk of Khotan,

Do not be angry, my dear; a mistake may occur in what is said.

Ultimately, what harm will befall the sultan of kingdoms,

If one day his gaze falls upon the state of a beggar?

That wine that gives hearts freedom from sorrow,

Becomes filled with the blood of the liver when the turn falls to us.

The state of Hafez's heart from the sorrow of separation,

Is like a wandering lover who falls separated from his friend.