Hafez · Ghazal 25 · The red rose has bloomed
شکفته شد گل حمرا و گشت بلبل مستصلای سرخوشی، ای صوفیان باده پرست
اساس توبه که در محکمی چو سنگ نمودببین که جام زجاجی چه طرفه‌اش بشکست
بیار باده که در بارگاه استغناچه پاسبان و چه سلطان، چه هوشیار و چه مست
از این رباط دو در، چون ضرورت است رحیلرواق و طاق معیشت، چه سربلند و چه پست
مقام عیش میسر نمی‌شود بی‌رنجبلی به حکم بلا بسته‌اند عهد الست
به هست و نیست مرنجان ضمیر و خوش می‌باشکه نیستی‌ست سرانجام هر کمال که هست
شکوه آصفی و اسب باد و منطق طیربه باد رفت و از او خواجه هیچ طرف نبست
به بال و پر مرو از ره که تیر پرتابیهوا گرفت زمانی، ولی به خاک نشست
زبان کلک تو حافظ چه شکر آن گویدکه گفته سخنت می‌برند دست به دست
The rose has opened and the nightingale is singing; Hafez invites you to receive the season's joy. He also offers perspective. Before the greatness of the Self-Sufficient, guard and sultan stand alike; we all pass through this inn of two doors, and even an arrow that soars returns to the earth. So do not trouble your heart over having and not having. Joy is rarely reached without some effort or pain, and that is no sign you have gone wrong. Stay grounded, be content, and be grateful for what your words and gifts give to others.
The red rose has bloomed, and the nightingale is drunk;
here is the call to merriment, O wine-loving Sufis!
The foundation of repentance, which seemed as firm as stone,
see how strangely a glass cup has shattered it.
Bring wine, for in the court of the Self-Sufficient
what difference between guard and sultan, between sober and drunk?
Since we must leave this inn with its two doors,
what matter if the arch and vault of your living are high or low?
The station of joy is never reached without pain;
yes, the covenant of Alast was sealed under the rule of trial.
Do not trouble your mind over having and not having, and be happy,
for nothingness is the end of every perfection there is.
Asaf's splendour, the wind for a steed, the language of the birds,
all went with the wind, and their master gained nothing from them.
Do not leave the road on wings and feathers, for the arrow shot upward
rides the air for a while, but comes down to the dust.
What thanks can the tongue of your pen give, Hafez,
that people pass your words from hand to hand?