Should Shiraz’s fair, our humble love requite,

And in her grace, our hearts’ affections light,

For but the mole upon her cheek so bright,

We’d yield Samarkand and Bukhara outright.

 

Saki, pour forth the remnants of our wine,

For in heaven’s realm, these joys shan’t intertwine.

No Ruknabad’s stream, nor Musalla’s shade,

Will grace that place where final rests are made.

 

Laments arise! These sirens, mischief-brewed,

With brows and gazes darkly they’ve subdued.

Our patience pilfered in such wanton style,

Not even Turks could match their plunder vile.

 

From Joseph’s beauty, ever on the rise,

I saw what led Zuleikha to despise

Her veil of chastity, for love’s strong ties

Compelled her heart to cross that sacred guise.

 

Thy words were harsh, yet I content remain,

“God forgive thee,” I pray, without disdain.

But would not sweet words suit thee more, in truth,

From ruby lips that taste of sugared youth?

 

O Beloved, heed the counsel I impart,

For youth in fortune’s grace should take to heart

The sage advice from those of elder years,

And in their learned words find solace, not fears.

 

The beloved’s grace, by flawed love unmarred,

Needs not the guise of rouge, nor kohl’s facade.

What need hath her fair visage for such arts,

When beauty lies inherent, not in parts?

 

Speak now of music, and of wine let’s muse,

Delve not in time’s deep secrets to confuse.

For this riddle, no sage could ever solve,

Nor will they, in time’s endless dance, evolve.

 

Hafiz, with ghazals like pearls finely strung,

Thy task not done till their reading is sung.

Read them with care, let fortune then disperse

Thy songs wide as stars in Pleiades’ verse.

**