my service in the wine house began a long time ago,
in the robe of poverty working for those in the know.
i lie in ambush for the opportune moment to snare
the pheasant of graceful walk with the net of desire.
our preacher doesn’t have a scent of the truth- i speak
my words also in his presence, not behind his back.
like the falling and rising breeze, i run to the friend’s alley,
asking for help from fellow travelers in spiritual rally.
the dust from your street won’t endure pain such as this;
you have shown kindness, o idol- i will restrain my protests!
her curls are a snare in the path, and her glance disaster;
remember, o heart, all that i have told you about her.
o noble concealer of faults, veil the carping eye
from these brave thoughts of my solitary sighs.
i am the hafez to the pious, and a drinker of dregs as well;
see the humor of how skillfully i play with people!