Poem #133

The Sufi set a snare and opened his jug of trickery

playing games with the heavens' own sorcery.

May the wheel of fate break the egg in his cap

for playing tricks on the mystics, he falls in his own trap.

Come, Cupbearer! The Sufis' graceful beauty has appeared again

starting her coquetry, causing sweet pain.

Where is this minstrel from, who plays the Iraq strain

and leads the melody back to Hejaz's plain?

Come, O heart, let us flee to God's refuge and grace

from those with short sleeves but a long, grasping embrace.

Do not feign, for whoever played at love untrue

found the door of meaning barred to their view.

Tomorrow, when the Court of Truth is revealed to all

ashamed will be the traveler who let the metaphor fall.

O graceful partridge, where do you strut with such air?

Be not proud, for the ascetic's cat is also at prayer.

Hafez, do not blame the libertines, for from the start

God freed us from the hypocrite's ascetic art.