Last night, I saw angels knock on the wineshop door-
the clay of Adam had been mixed, and cast into a cup.
Those who dwell in the chaste and veiled heavens
drank strong wine with me, a wayside beggar:
“Heaven could not support the burden of his Trust”;
they cast the lots, and drew the name of desirous me.
Forgive the conflict of the seventy and two sects,
for they did not see the truth, and spun fantasy.
Thank god, that between us peace arrived;
the dancing angels drank the cup of gratitude!
It is not fire at which the candle’s flame laughed-
but fire it is by which the moth’s body burned!
Since they began to comb with pen the curls of speech, no one
has drawn aside the veil from the cheek of thought, like Hafez!
