Ghazal 184

Last night I saw that the angels knocked upon the tavern's door —

they kneaded Adam's clay and cast it into the cup.

The dwellers of the sanctuary of modesty and the angelic realm

drank intoxicating wine with me, the roadside beggar.

The sky could not bear the burden of the Trust —

they cast the lot of this work in the name of this madman.

Forgive the war of seventy-two sects —

since they did not see the truth, they took the road of fable.

Thank God, between me and Him, peace was made —

the Sufis, dancing, raised the cup of gratitude.

Fire is not that from whose flame the candle laughs —

fire is that which they set to the harvest of the moth.

No one like Hafez has lifted the veil from the face of thought,

since they combed the head of speech's tresses with the pen.