Ghazal 20

The fast is done, the feast has come, and hearts have risen —

wine has come to a boil in the cellar, and wine we must demand.

The reign of the piety-sellers, those heavy-souled ones, has passed —

now is the time for revelry and the rends’ merrymaking, it is clear.

What blame can fall on one who drinks such wine?

What fault is this, in such folly? And what transgression is it?

Bathe your prayer rug in wine, if the elder of the tavern says so —

for the wayfarer is not unaware of the road and ways of the lodge.

In the garden of vision and the rose bower of mystic states,

no grace unfolded for me save the grace of the friend’s face.

With my own eye I saw upon the water: the reflection

of the face of the invisible one, from the mirror of the cup.

Blessed is that heart which, beneath this turning sky,

has a cup in hand and a beloved to embrace.

Hafez’s hand cannot reach the long tress of the beloved —

take heed, for that is a tale told from far, too far.