1. Blame me not for shedding tears of sorrow,
They comfort me when friends depart afar,

2. How vile is he who joyfully lives ignobly,
While the noble grieves with life's disquietude.

3. No union with the beloved quenches my thirst,
As wine behind the veil which cannot inebriate.

4. Give me that wine, perhaps it will dispel,
My cares through charming melodies of the lute strings.

5. A goblet as though amid the dark night's gloom,
In the cups of wine-pourers, sun of day.

6. Living is only in Damascus' gardens,
Among its moons and with dice for leisure.

7. I have shed my chastity there yet remain,
Enslaved by love though virtue I did mar.

8. Just as willingly I shed the clothes of praise,
By my own choice for the clan of Bakhtiyar.

9. A folk like rainclouds in the plain of lances,
And in war like ferocious roaring lions,

10. With hearts firm as the mountains,
And palms generous as the oceans,

11. As though God—Glorious is He—molded them,
From clay, while people were made from potters.