Although I seethe like a vat of wine from love’s ferment,
I drink blood with sealed lips that keep me silent.
It is the soul’s resolve to possess the beloved’s lips;
Look at me, whose struggle with soul has left me spent!
How can I be free from heart’s sorrow when each breath
The idol’s black curl rings my ear with the slave’s ornament?
God forbid that I fall in love with my own devotion;
This much is true: I drink a glass when the time is cogent.
I hope that on Judgement Day upon the enemy’s note,
The burden of His grace doesn’t leave me twisted and bent.
My father sold the green of heaven for two grains of wheat;
Why not sell for less this garden that blooms but a moment?
My wearing the dervish frock is not about religion;
It is a covering to conceal a hundred torments.
I who wish to drink only pure and filtered wine, what can
I do but remain with the wise Magian conversant?
If in this way our minstrel plays in the mode of love,
Hafez’s verse when heard will create astonishment.