The Novrooz breeze has blown round (mountain and wilderness) the nature,

The poor and the king are wearing the feast dress together.

The nightingale of the paradise garden is no way towards the real Beloved,

I make boast of the minstrel of the assembly who is attractive in the center.

The mystic and the sufi have been deprived of this desert,

Take a cup of wine from the minstrel’s hand as to move towards purity.

During the feast all people go to the gardend and wilderness,

I the languishing one, leave the tavern towards the Creator.

Auspicious be Novrooz Feast for the poor and the rich,

Of the temple open, oh the idol beloved an aperture.

If you let me inter the court of the tavern elder,

Not on my foot, but upon my soul and my head towards Him I scamper.

For many years I was within the raw of the scholars,

When I reach the Beloved, not again to make a blunder.

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