Every moment I bemoan me Of the hand of separation:
Woe's me if the wind my wailing Weak convey not to thy station!

Since, for sev'rance, such my case is As God render thine ill wisher's,
What's to do for me but weeping, Crying out and lamentation?

How should I not suffer sorrow Day and night? In what, since ever
From the sight of thee I'm distant, Should my heart feel jubilation?

Ah, how many a bloody fountain, From mine eye, my heart hath opened,
Since thou'rt far from me heart-stricken, Far from sight and salutation!

From the root of every eyelash Trickle blood-drops by the hundred,
When my heart complaining maketh Of the pains of separation.

Drowned in thought of thee is Hafiz Night and day; but of the bondman
Woebegone thou reckest nothing, Heedest not his desolation.