May their footsteps never fail who tread its clusters out of shape.
Since the love of wine was written by Fate’s finger on my brow,
What is written once is written, and you cannot change it now;
Talk no babble about wisdom: in the awful hour of death,
Is the breath of Aristotle better than the beggar’s breath?
Spare me, pious friend, reproaches, for the selfsame God who chose
You to be so wise and pious, made me love the wine and rose.
Hafiz, spend thy life so wisely that when thou at last art dead,
‘Dead’ may not be all the comment, all the requiem that’s said.