Will it come to pass, at last, that they fling wide the taverns' doors,
and loose for us the tangled knot that binds our sore and thwarted lot?
If for the self-admiring heart of the ascetic they were shut,
keep a stout heart—for the sweet sake of God they yet shall open wide.
By the pure heart of the roguish rends who drink their wine at break of dawn,
full many a bolted door they'll fling apart with the master-key of prayer.
Write out a letter of condolence now for the daughter of the vine,
that all the Magian boys may loose their doubled tresses down in grief.
Cut through the harp's own trembling strings at the death of the pure, clear wine,
that all the boon-companions loose warm blood in weeping from their lashes.
They have shut the tavern's door—O God, do not permit it now to be
that they should open in its stead the door of cant and hypocrisy.
Hafez, this cloak you wear so proud—tomorrow you shall plainly see
what a heathen's cord they'll loose, in fraud, concealed beneath its holy folds.
