Mikhail Kuzmin
The inscription reads like a delicate garland at the cornice...

The inscription reads like a delicate garland at the cornice:
«Here is the tavern of the sage and the poet Hafiz».
We were standing,
We were waiting silently
Before an ivy-entwined door.
It seems as though we knew:
The doors were calling
To a secret-wise idleness.
With that idleness,
We, with merriment,
Overthrew the noise of the crowd from ourselves.
With a new potion
Of housewarming
We met the dawn every time.
The brightness of laughter
Is a hindrance here,
Here only smiles are decent.
For us, pleasure is —
The taste of fur,
And the movements of cupbearers are harmonious.
In gentle powders
With golden curls
We contemplate with love,
In the circle of the wise,
Lovers of wisdom
The cups of wine do not smell of blood.
We — are like bees,
Twisting into valleys,
There we are gathering the sweetness of roses.
The mountains — naked,
Hives — floors,
We put our honey there.
The doors were calling
(It seems as though we knew)
To secret-wise idleness,
And we were standing,
We were waiting silently
In front of the ivy wrapped door.
The inscription reads like a delicate garland at the cornice:
«Here is the tavern of the sage and the poet Hafiz». 

Translated by Jennifer Daria Hadawi