Visiting Hafez's tomb for some hours I stood,
And took a last look at his cupola, realizing
Hafez is Iranian culture.

Flowers, intoxication, sweet words, gardens, love.
Inside a search for God, enlightenment:
Sweet fruit around a hard seed of rebirth.

He did not castigate them, the people.
Inviting them to lay on the grass with him,
Drinking from one cup among blossoms' heavy musk,
Become delirious together and let other feelings melt.

And the dapper young men and women among them,
That come here eyes on one another,
Reciting the Divan to their lovers?

If their heart is clean in what they know
And your head sways with pride and disapproval,
Since they cannot see the message at the glasses' bottom,
Mistaking the sweet fruit for the nut therein:
Is it not true that all is relative and God pure love?
Then can you know their hearts or have you lost,
The benefit of the doubt?

It is they that carry icepicks ready,
To break this searcher's frozen silence.

Who says his wine was from grape,
And his beloved from clay?