Poem #9

The splendor of youth has returned to the garden's bowers,

the rose brings glad tidings to the nightingale in the flowers.

O breeze, if you reach the young ones of the meadow green,

give our service to the cypress, the rose, and the basil's sheen.

If the Magian boy shines forth with such a grace divine,

I'll sweep the tavern door with these eyelashes of mine.

O you who draw the polo stick of ambergris on the moon,

do not leave this wanderer bewildered, in a swoon.

I fear that those who mock the drinkers of the dregs today,

will find their faith is lost in the tavern's way.

Be a companion to the men of God, for in Noah's ark,

there is a dust that fears no flood, however deep and dark.

Go from the house of the turning sphere, ask not for bread or door,

for this dark bowl kills the guest, and gives him nothing more.

For one whose last bed is a handful of dust in the end,

what need to raise a palace to the stars, my friend?

O my Moon of Canaan! The throne of Egypt is your own,

the time has come to leave the prison, and ascend the throne.

Drink wine, Hafez! Be a libertine, and let your heart be free,

but do not make the Quran a trap for hypocrisy.