O RIVAL, snatch not from my lips away
The cup that holds the wine of my delight;
The mirror of my joy turns cold and grey,
Darkened before my sight.
As through the gloom the radiant sun above
Comes brightening the world, and shades depart,
So do I burnish with the oil of love
The rust from off my heart.
I vainly stretch imploring hands that long
To touch Hope’s gleaming garment as she flies;
Though my desire may fail, yet Hope is strong
And keen, and never dies.
When on the cup that held the drink divine
Of last night’s feast the light of morning falls,
The joy of night, the magic of the wine,
The goblet’s sight recalls.
Like thee, O Ferhad, in my loneliness
Toiling upon the mountains I have been,
But never drank the sherbet of success,
Sweet as thy lips, Shirin.
Mortals we are, and, fashioned thus of earth,
Vain, Makhfi, is this world in which we trust,
Dust is the rank of kings, the pride of birth,
Yea, thou thyself art dust.