Poem #8

Arise, O Cupbearer! Let the wine cup flow,

and scatter dust upon the head of this world's grief and woe.

Place the goblet in my hand, that I may tear aside,

this blue-stained cloak of hypocrisy, and all the shame I hide.

Though the wise may call it scandal, and speak of my disgrace,

I seek no name or honor, in this love-enchanted place.

Pour the wine! And let the wind of pride be blown away,

dust be upon the head of this vain breath, I say.

The smoke of sighs from my burning breast has risen high,

and scorched these raw and frozen souls, beneath the sky.

I see no one who knows the secret of my heart's desire,

among the common people, or the elite's attire.

My heart is pleased with the Beloved, who stole my peace away,

and left me restless in this love, by night and by day.

Whoever sees that silver Cypress, walking in grace,

will never look at the garden cypress, in any place.

Be patient, Hafez, in the hardship of the night and day,

for in the end, you shall find your heart's desire, come what may.