Poem #343

For forty years I’ve boasted, drunk and free

that the least of the Magi's servants is me.

By the grace of the Wine-Seller, kind and true

my cup was never empty of the bright, clear brew.

Through love's high rank and the drunkards' noble state

the tavern's head has been my home of late.

Do not misjudge me as a drinker of dregs

my robe is stained, but pure the soul that begs.

I am the King's falcon—what fate is this?

That I am exiled from my nest of bliss?

‘Tis pity a nightingale with tongue so sweet

should sit in silence in this cage’s seat.

The air of Fars breeds baseness in the soul

where is the friend to help me reach my goal?

Hafez, how long will you hide the cup from view?

Before the Master, I’ll reveal what you do.

Turanshah, the fortunate, whose grace becomes

a collar that my neck embrace.