Hair disheveled, smiling lips, sweating and tipsy,
garment torn, singing a love song, glass in hand,
picking a quarrel, chanting a spell,
yesterday at midnight she came and sat by my bed.
She lowered her head to my ear, and whispered, sad-voiced,
“My old lover, are you asleep?”
The lover for whom such a nightfarer’s drink is poured
is an unbeliever of love if he does not worship wine.
Come on, hermit, do not blame those who drink to the dregs,
there was no other gift when God announced His Mastery.
The smile of the wineglass, a girl’s tangled tresses,
have broken may penances, as they broke the penance of Hafiz.