Ghazal 8

Cupbearer, arise and bring the cup —

throw dust upon the sorrows of our days.

Place the wine bowl in my hand, so that I may

cast off this blue-dyed cloak of pretense.

Though it brings ill repute among the wise,

we do not seek honor or good name.

Pour the wine! Enough of this wind of pride —

dust upon the head of this unfinished self.

The smoke of sighs from my lamenting breast

has scorched these frozen, unripe souls.

I see no one — from elite or common folk —

who is confidant to my mad heart’s secret.

My spirit is glad with a certain heart-soother,

who stole all peace from my heart at once.

No one will gaze at the cypress in the garden again,

who has once seen that silver-bodied cypress.

Be patient, Hafez, through the hardship of night and day —

at last one day you will find what your heart desires.