To my beloved I said: “O empress of splendor, grant this unfortunate one your mercy,” to which she replied: “Abandoned and destitute, he who gives in to the whims of his heart goes astray.”

“Stop for a moment, do not go away,” I asked her. “How can someone who has grown up in your house and is unfamiliar with the ways of the outside world take on the suffering of so many people?” she pondered.

The impoverished lie on beds of thorns, their heads resting on stones. Would someone who lives in opulence and floats in dreams on plush velvet waste a thought on such hardships?

O beloved one, whose curls entwine like chains, the beauty spot on your rosy cheek, dark as musk and incomparable, suits you well.

Beloved, the glow of wine on your moon face is like the unique charm of a scarlet petal amidst the sublime bloom of roses.

Though the fragrant tapestries woven by the garden’s many admirers can hardly enchant, the delicate, blood-red threads that adorn your cheek are of a beauty that astounds!

I admonished, “Heed the wailing and pleading of this wanderer when morning comes, for your night-black tresses falling across your brow cast a veil of darkness on those left behind.”

She replied: “Hafiz, if even the familiar tremble in awe, how can it be that a foreign soul like yours finds itself in such a forlorn, sad situation?”

**