“Why was I born, when will I die?Who can change the day of his birth,who has a say in the day of his death?Come, my beloved, I want to ask the spiritof the wine to make me forget that weshall never understand.”

“How much more of the mosque, of prayer and fasting?Better go drunk and begging round the taverns.Khayyam, drink wine, for soon this clay of yoursWill make a cup, bowl, one day a jar.When once you hear the roses are in bloom,Then is the time, my love, to pour the wine;Houris and palaces and Heaven and Hell-These are but fairy-tales, forget them all.”

“I hide my distress, just likethe blessed birds hide themselveswhen they are preparing to die. Wine! Wine, roses, music and yourindifference to my sadness, my loved-one!”

“Why do you sell your wine, merchant?What can they give you in exchange for your wine? Money? … And what can money give you? Power? … Aren't you the owner of the world when you are holding a drink? Is anyone richer than you, who have gold in your cup, Rubies, Pearls, Dreams, and Love? Don't you feel the blood burning in your veins when the cup kisses your lips.”

“Youth, like a magic bird, has flown awayHe sang a little morning-hour in MaySang to the rose, his love, that too is gone--Whither is more than you or I can say.”

“When I want to understand what is happening today or try to decide what will happen tomorrow, I look back.”

“When Allah created me, he knew that Iwould drink a lot of wine. So if I didn't, theomniscience of Allah would stand on its head.”