your curl’s twists are the snare of religion and blasphemy,
and of all your attributes, this is merely a scent!
your beauty is the wondrous proof of goodness, but
the history of your glance is clearly magic.
whose soul can endure your capricious eye-
for it is a bow always drawn in ambush?
may that black eye have a hundred praises and cheers,
for in killing lovers, it is nothing but a creative curse!
it is a wondrous science, the science of love’s form-
because the lowliest earth becomes the highest heaven!
don’t think that the speaker of evil left, and its soul won-
it left its entire account with the recording angels.
hafez, don’t become safe from the wiles of his curls,
which have stolen your heart, and now entrap religion.
