My heart from me's gone and fruition, My case to amend, cometh not;
Myself from myself have I severed, And natheless the Friend cometh not.

In this my conceit and delusion, The season of life passeth by,
And yet her long tress's oppression, Alack! to an end cometh not.

My heart hath great plenty of stories To tell to the breeze of the dawn;
But moon to the night of my fortune, The darkness to rend, cometh not.

The shafts of my dawntide complainings Used never to fail of their aim:
How is it one sigh to the target, Of all that I spend, cometh not?

Our life (wellaway!) and our substance We sacrificed not for her sake:
Alack, that for love our devotion Thus far to extend cometh not!

For the grievous despite and aversion It feeleth 'gainst all mankind,
Now Hafiz's heart from the ring of The Loved One's tress-bend cometh not.