My service in the wine house began a long time ago,
in the robe of poverty working for those in the know.
I lie in ambush for the opportune moment to snare
the pheasant of graceful walk with the net of desire.
Our preacher doesn’t have a scent of the truth- I speak
my words also in his presence, not behind his back.
Like the falling and rising breeze, I run to the friend’s alley,
asking for help from fellow travelers in spiritual rally.
The dust from your street won’t endure pain such as this;
You have shown kindness, O idol- I will restrain my protests!
Her curls are a snare in the path, and her glance disaster;
Remember, O heart, all that I have told you about her.
O noble concealer of faults, veil the carping eye
from these brave thoughts of my solitary sighs.
I am the Hafez to the pious, and a drinker of dregs as well;
See the humor of how skillfully I play with people!
