When the golden orb ascends from the east of the cup
A thousand tulips upon the beloved"s cheeks open up
The morning breeze breaks upon the head of the bouquet
The bouquet of the bouquet will flow amidst the grass and crop.
The story of the night of separation is not that story
Of which a small account many, many books would fill up.
This poor and impoverished house of Fate can"t satiate
Cry out a hundred sorrows and upon a morsel sup.
With brain and brawn cannot search for the essence
A mere fantasy, this endeavor too will flop.
If like Noah, you can patiently await the end of storm
The tides of fortune turn, and your life-long desires prop.
If the breeze of Your hair at Hafiz"s tomb makes a stop
A hundred thousand tulips will adorn his grave-top

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