The wine flask slipped from my hand again,

The wine showed its power to me once more.

A thousand praises be upon the red wine,

That takes away the yellow color from our faces.

We cherish the hand that picked the grapes,

May the foot that crushed them not wither.

Go, ascetic, do not find fault with us,

For divine work is not a trivial matter.

From eternity, love became my destiny,

The written fate cannot be erased.

Do not speak of wisdom, for at the time of death,

Aristotle himself gives up his soul, as if helpless.

Do not suffer needlessly, be content,

Be satisfied even if you don't have brocade like the one carried away (by fate).

Live such a life in the world,

That when you are dead, they do not merely say 'he died'.

He becomes intoxicated with the unity from the cup of Alast (pre-existence),

Whoever, like Hafez, drinks pure wine.