بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Hafez’s Funeral Couplet, Its Modern English Translation, and the Legend Behind It

 Khājeh Shams-od-Dīn Moḥammad Ḥāfeẓ-e Shīrāzī (Persian: خواجه شمس‌‌الدین محمد حافظ شیرازی), known by his pen name Hafez (حافظ Ḥāfeẓ lit. 'the memorizer' or 'the (safe) keeper'; 1325–1390) or Hafiz, is an influential figure in Sufi literature, and himself is known to be a Sufi possessing the gifts of the oracles, as Lisän al-Ghayb/lesān al-ḡayb, tongue of the unseen.

 

A popular—and very old—story ties this verse to Hafez’s funeral in Shiraz. The version summarized in the Daneshnāmeh-ye Farhang-e Mardom-e Irān (Center for the Great Islamic Encyclopedia) says that after Hafez died, some religious figures hesitated to perform the funeral prayer. To settle the dispute, it was agreed to draw an omen from his own words, a practice many people follow until today—by putting slips of his verses in a container and having a child pull one. The verse that came out was this couplet, and the reluctant group then proceeded with the rites.

 

But that same reference adds an important scholarly caution: we don’t actually know for sure that people were taking omens from Hafez during his lifetime, and the tradition is documented in sources compiled after his death; so the funeral-omen tale is best treated as part of his powerful cultural and hagiographic afterlife rather than certain, contemporary biography.

 

What is historically clear is that the Divān very early acquired an oracular status: Encyclopaedia Iranica notes that by the 15th century writers report Sufis calling the Divān “ Lisän al-Ghayb/lesān al-ḡayb” (“Tongue of the Unseen”), a title that later becomes strongly associated with Hafez himself. 

 

And for place: Hafez’s tomb is in Shiraz at the Moṣallā area (Ḵāk-e Moṣallā), the site later developed into today’s Hafeziya complex 

 

قَدَم دَریغ مَدار اَز جِنازِهٔ «حافِظ»

کِه گَرچِه غَرْقِ گُناه اَست می‌رَوَد بِه بِهِشْت 

qadam darīgh madār az jenāze-ye Ḥāfeẓ
ke garče ḡarq-e gonāh ast mī-ravad be behešt

 

 “Don’t hold back a step from Hafez’s funeral procession—
for though he’s drowned in sin, he’s on his way to Paradise.”

 

 

This couplet isn’t a stray epigram—it’s the maqṭaʿ (closing couplet, where the poet usually names himself) of a ghazal in Hafez’s Divān, the ghazal that begins:

کنون که می‌دمد از بوستان نسیم بهشت …

In many modern arrangements (including Ganjoor’s widely used ordering) it appears as Ghazal 79, and the lines above are the final couplet of that ghazal. 

 

In the ghazal’s flow, this comes right after Hafez pushes back against moral bookkeeping (“don’t shame me for a dark record—who truly knows what destiny has written?”). Then he lands the paradox: the public sinner, in the eyes of the pious, may still be received by mercy.

My take: it’s classic Hafez—half self-mocking, half a quiet dare. The point isn’t “sins don’t matter.” The point is: your certainty about other people’s final standing is the real spiritual danger.

 

The whole ghazal

کُنُون کِه مِی‌دَمَد اَز بُوسْتان نَسِیمِ بِهِشْت
مَن و شَرابِ فَرَح‌بَخْش و یارِ حُورْسِرِشْت

konūn ke mī-damad az būstān nasīm-e behešt
man o šarāb-e faraḥ-baḵš o yār-e hūr-serešt

 

“Now that the garden breathes the breeze of Paradise,
give me heart‑gladdening wine—and a beloved with an houri’s nature.”

 

 Notes:
“Breeze of Paradise” is spring itself: a sensual, almost sacred air moving through the garden.
Wine + beloved are Hafez’s signature double-language: literal joy on the surface, and (for Sufi ears) a hint of spiritual rapture underneath.

حُورْسِرِشْت (hūr-serešt) = “houri‑natured,” i.e., angelic/otherworldly in temperament.

 

گِدا چِرا نَزَنَد لافِ سَلْطَنَت اَمْرُوز؟
کِه خِیْمِه سَایِهٔ اَبْر اَسْت و بَزْمْگَه لَبِ کِشْت

gedā čerā nazanad lāf-e salṭanat emrūz?
ke ḵeyme sāye-ye abr ast o bazm-gah lab-e kešt

 

“Why shouldn’t a beggar boast of kingship today?
When your tent is the shade of a cloud, and your banquet‑hall is the edge of the fields.”

 

 Notes: 

Hafez flips social rank: in spring’s abundance, even a beggar can play the king.
Cloud‑shade as a “tent”: nature provides the pavilion; you need no palace.
Lab‑e kešt (the field’s edge) suggests a picnic‑banquet right where life is growing.

 

چَمَن حِکایَتِ اُرْدِیبِهِشْت مِی‌گُوید

نَه عاقِل اَسْت کِه نِسْیِه خَرید و نَقْد بِهِشْت

čaman ḥekāyat-e ordībehešt mī-gūyad
na ʿāqel ast ke nesye ḵarīd o naqd behešt

 

“The meadow tells the tale of Ordibehesht (the height of spring);
it isn’t wisdom to buy on credit—while Paradise is cash in hand.”

 

Notes: 

For  چَمَن see the bottom of the page.

Ordibehesht is the Persian month of lush spring; it literally contains بهشت (behešt, “paradise”) inside its name—Hafez is absolutely enjoying that.
The point is sharply practical: don’t trade the immediate, living ‘paradise’ of spring for a deferred promise (“on credit”).
I read this as Hafez’s gentle mockery of a piety that postpones joy until later.

 

بِه مِی عِمارَتِ دِل کُن کِه این جَهانِ خَراب

بَر آن سَر اَسْت کِه اَز خاکِ ما بِسازَد خِشْت

be mey ʿemārat-e del kon ke īn jahān-e ḵarāb
bar ān sar ast ke az ḵāk-e mā besāzad ḵešt

 

"Build up the heart with wine—because this ruined world
is set on making bricks from our dust.”

 

Notes: 

“Build the heart” is a striking phrase: wine isn’t just indulgence; it’s presented as a tool for inner restoration.
The second line is blunt mortality: the world will recycle us into clay and brick—so don’t live as if you’re permanent.
Sufi hearing: “wine” means the intoxicating remembrance that makes the heart alive.

وَفا مَجوی زِ دُشْمَن کِه پَرتَوِی نَدَهَد
چُو شَمْعِ صَوْمَعِه اَفْروزی اَز چِراغِ کِنِشْت 

vafā majūy ze došman ke partavī nadahad
čo šamʿ-e ṣowmeʿe afrūzī az čerāḡ-e kenisht

 

“Don’t look for loyalty from an enemy—they won’t give you a single gleam,
like trying to light a monastery’s candle from a temple’s lamp.”

 

Notes: 

وفا (vafā) is more than “faithfulness”: it’s loyalty, reliability, keeping the bond.
صومعه (ṣowmeʿe) = monastery/hermitage; کِنِشْت (kenisht) can refer to a non‑Muslim house of worship (often a synagogue/temple/place of assembly in Persian usage.). The contrast underlines incompatibility: don’t expect one source to feed the other.
My opinionated take: Hafez isn’t preaching sectarianism here; he’s using religious imagery to say: don’t demand warmth from what is structurally opposed to you.

 

مَکُن بِه نامِه‌سِیاهِی مَلامَتِ مَنِ مَسْت
کِه آگَه اَسْت کِه تَقْدیر بَر سَرَش چِه نِوِشْت؟   

makon be nāme-siyāhī malāmat-e man-e mast
ke āgah ast ke taqdīr bar saraš če nevesht?

 

“Don’t blame me—the drunk—for my blackened record;
who actually knows what Fate has written over someone’s head?”

 

Notes: 

نامه‌سیاهی (nāme-siyāhī) = the “blackness of the record,” i.e., a dark ledger of deeds.
The pivot is classic Hafez: moral accusation meets humility before the unknown.
“Written over one’s head” is destiny imagery: your final standing isn’t yours to certify.

 

قَدَم دَریغ مَدار اَز جِنازِهٔ «حافِظ»
کِه گَرچِه غَرْقِ گُناه اَسْت مِی‌رَوَد بِه بِهِشْت

qadam darīgh madār az jenāze-ye Ḥāfeẓ
ke garče ḡarq-e gonāh ast mī-ravad be behešt

 

 “Don’t hold back a step from Hafez’s funeral procession—
for though he’s drowned in sin, he’s on his way to Paradise.”

 

 

 

 

 Notes on  چَمَن : 

 

 چَمَن  (čaman) is one of those Persian words that seems simple (“meadow”), but in classical poetry it carries a whole garden-world of associations.

 With diacritics: چَمَن
 Transliteration: čaman (also commonly romanized chaman)

 Shades of meaning

 1) A designed garden space: a walk / avenue in a garden

In older lexicography (and in descriptions of Persian garden layout), چمن can mean the cleared, straight “walk” inside a garden, often lined with trees, with a place to sit, and sometimes planted with flowers and herbs—something close to “a garden promenade / avenue.”  

That’s a big clue for poetry: چمن is not only “nature,” it’s also a human-made pleasure-space.

 2) The lawn / green carpet of a garden (and by extension, the garden itself)

From that “garden-walk” sense, it naturally extends to the greensward of a garden—the green ground itself—and then even to “garden / orchard / flower-garden” more broadly. Dehkhodā explicitly gives senses like “bāgh, bustān, golzār” and “any place where trees, shrubs, flowers are planted.”  

 3) Meadow / green field / pasture

This is the most common general meaning today, and it’s already classical: “زمین سبز و خرم، مرغزار” (“a lush green stretch; meadow/pasture”) is exactly how Moʿīn glosses it.  

 4) “Turf/grass” as a planted ground-cover (modern everyday use)

Dehkhodā also notes the everyday modern sense: چمن  as the planted grass/turf people sow in parks, boulevards, fields, and gardens for a lasting green view.  

 5) A rarer, secondary meaning: a smooth-gaited horse

Less relevant to Hafez’s line, but interesting: Dehkhodā records چمن as also said of an easy-paced, smooth-moving horse. 
 

Poetic “color” in classical Persian
Even when it simply means “meadow,” چمن tends to imply:
 Spring as lived experience: a place to stroll, sit, drink, listen to birds, watch flowers open.
 A near-neighbor of Paradise: poets often yoke چمن to بهشت in imagery (sometimes outright equating them). Dehkhodā even preserves examples like Saʿdī’s “چمن امروز بهشت است …” (“today the meadow is paradise …”).   The stage where the beloved appears: “سرو در چمن” (cypress in the meadow) becomes a standard picture: the tall beloved standing on the green “carpet.”

My take: in Hafez, چمن usually feels less like a random field and more like the poetic garden-space where beauty is staged—a place you enter with others, where joy and meaning become visible.

 Etymology

A major scholarly reference (Encyclopaedia Iranica) lists Persian čaman “meadow” as a Turkic loanword, from Turkic čimän.  

So: it’s fully “at home” in Persian by the classical period, but its historical source is generally treated as Turkic in that reference.