At the gates of the tavern I saw the angels knock
Kneaded this clay we call human, and made it talk.

The residents of the Celestial Court and the heavenly bloc
Drank from the Wine of Love, with me, upon our common walk.

The earth and the skies could not keep this trust of the clock
Yet the poor insane me was stuck with such tough luck.

People find good reason for the wars in which they are stuck
Since Truth they cannot see, to fantasies they would flock.

In our midst, thank God, the dogs of war are put in chain and lock
The angels gratefully drink, gracefully dance, from block to block.

Fire is not a flickering glow that a candle flame would mock
Fire is the flame of a heap of moths that lightning has just struck.

None like Hafiz, the mask of deceitful intellect can pluck
Till the hair of Bride of Verses was brushed lock after lock

منبع: www.sattor.com.