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Ghazal 313: gar bagh pur shukufa vu gulzar khurram ast

What does it profit if roses rejoice
and the garden is in full bloom?
Our heart is sorrow-bound.
Like the breeze at dawn
we rustled through the world and found
that joyful hearts are scarce
in this realm of living sadness.
Torrents of grief are the only rain
to fall from the hard, azure sky.
How miserable to dwell
beneath this turquoise dome.

Wherever he lives around the world,
heart's blood is the only wine
a poor man drinks.
People regard the ethical with low contempt
while the ignorant see themselves
as the ultimate in rectitude.
How can one look to heaven for joy
when it too wanders bewildered, clad
in funereal indigo?
The spawn of the age
show loyalty to no man.
Pity anyone who's not part of the crowd.

A cup of dregs
from the bottom of the barrel
is in truth more pleasant
than a goblet drunk
in the palace of kings.
Go, Khusrau,
and find a corner
of contentment in which to dwell.
Drink wine, and never turn
from a friend
in whom you can trust.