Last night I saw angels knocked on the door of the tavern.
They kneaded Adam’s clay and cast it in the mold of a cup.
The dwellers of the sacred fold of angelic modesty and chastity
Drank the intoxicating wine with me, a beggar.
The heaven could not carry the burden of trust.
The lot was cast in the name of me, the mad one.
Excuse the fighting of the seventy-two nations.
Since they did not see the truth, they took to falsehood.
Thank God, peace fell between him and me.
The huris, dancing, drank wine to thank for it.
That is not fire with whose flame the candle laughs.
That is fire which was cast in the harvest of the moth.
Ever since the tress of speech was combed with a pen,
None has unveiled the human thought as Hafes.