don’t fill my heart with arrows from your glancing eye,
because under your languishing look i’ll die!
since beauty’s account is within the ledger of perfection,
grant me alms- i am so poor and indigent!
fill the glass, for amidst the wealth of love,
youth’s fortune in the world is mine, ‘though old.
my heart’s expanse was so filled by the friend,
that “myself” was all lost to thought of self.
may there be no account apart from minstrel and wine-
if my secretary’s pen has scratch to say about it!
in all this hubbub, where one can’t hear another,
i will receive grace from the magian elder.
preacher- to what end do you deceive us
with the garden’s apple, honey and milk?
i have made my arrangement with the wine-seller-
i will not greet the day of sorrow without a glass!
i am that bird who each morning and night,
from the roof of heaven sings his song!
i have, like hafez, his treasure in my heart-
although the rivals find me all rubbish!
beautiful the moments of drunken bliss
which give me respite from king and courtier!