Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight: And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.


Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry, "Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."

And, as the

And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before The Tavern shouted-- "Open then the Door! "You know how little while we have to stay, And, once departed, may return no more."

Now the New Year

Now the New Year reviving old Desires, The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires, Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

Iràm indeed

Iràm indeed is gone with all its Rose, And Jamshýd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows; But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields, And still a Garden by the Water blows.

And David's Lips

And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine High piping Pehleví, with "Wine! Wine! Wine! Red Wine!''--the Nightingale cries to the Rose That yellow Cheek of her's

to incarnadine.

With me along

And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine High piping Pehleví, with "Wine! Wine! Wine! Red Wine!''--the Nightingale cries to acheter cialis the Rose That yellow Cheek of her's to incarnadine.

Be with Those Who Help

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring The Winter Garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.




Omar Khayyam Born in Nishapur, at a young age he moved to Samarkand and obtained his education there. Afterwards he moved to Bukhara and became established as one of the major mathematicians and astronomers of the medieval period. He is the author of one of the most important treatises on algebra written before modern times, the Treatise on Demonstration of Problems of Algebra, which includes a geometric method for solving cubic equations by intersecting a hyperbola with a circle. He contributed to a calendar reform.

His significance as a philosopher and teacher, and his few remaining philosophical works, have not received the same attention as his scientific and poetic writings. Al-Zamakhshari referred to him as “the philosopher of the world”. Many sources have testified that he taught for decades the philosophy of Avicenna in Nishapur where Khayyám was born and buried and where his mausoleum today remains a masterpiece of Iranian architecture visited by many people every year.

Outside Iran and Persian speaking countries, Khayyám has had an impact on literature and societies through the translation of his works and popularization by other scholars. The greatest such impact was in English-speaking countries; the English scholar Thomas Hyde (1636–1703) was the first non-Persian to study him. The most influential of all was Edward FitzGerald (1809–83),[ who made Khayyám the most famous poet of the East in the West through his celebrated translation and adaptations of Khayyám's rather small number of quatrains in the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Omar Khayyám died in 1131 and is buried in the Khayyam Garden at the mausoleum of Imamzadeh Mahruq in Nishapur. In 1963 the mausoleum of Omar Khayyam was constructed on the site by Hooshang Seyhoun.

Source: wikipedia





Be width those who help your

Be with those who help your being.
Don't sit with indifferent people, whose breath
comes cold out of their mouths.
Not these visible forms, your work is deeper.

A chunk of dirt thrown in the air breaks to pieces.
If you don't try to fly,
and so break yourself apart,
you will be broken open by death,
when it's too late for all you could become.

A chunk of dirt thrown in the air breaks to pieces.
If you don't try to fly,
and so break yourself apart,
you will be broken open by death,
when it's too late for all you could become.


Your grief for what you've lost lifts a mirror
up to where you are bravely working.

Expecting the worst, you look, and instead,
here's the joyful face you've been wanting to see.

Your hand opens and closes and opens and closes.
If it were always a fist or always stretched open,
you would be paralysed.

Your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding,
the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated
as birdwings.

Close the languae-door

There is some kiss we want
with our whole lives,
the touch of Spirit on the body.

Seawater begs the pearl
to break its shell.

And the lily, how passionately
it needs some wild Darling!

At night, I open the window
and ask the moon to come
and press its face against mine.
Breathe into me.

Close the language-door,
and open the love-window

The moon won't use the door,
only the window.

Cradle my heart

Last night,
I was lying on the rooftop,
thinking of you.
I saw a special Star,
and summoned her to take you a message.
I prostrated myself to the Star
and asked her to take my prostration
to that Sun of Tabriz.
So that with his light, he can turn
my dark stones into gold.
I opened my chest and showed her my scars,
I told her to bring me news
of my bloodthirsty Lover.
As I waited,
I paced back and forth,
until the child of my heart became quiet.
The child slept, as if I were rocking his cradle.
Oh Beloved, give milk to the infant of the heart,
and don't hold us from our turning.
You have cared for hundreds,
don't let it stop with me now.
At the end, the town of unity is the place for the heart.
Why do you keep this bewildered heart
in the town of dissolution?
I have gone speechless, but to rid homepage myself
of this dry mood,
oh Saaqhi, pass the narcissus of the wine.


Even when you tear its petals off one after another,
the rose keeps laughing and doesn't bend in pain.
"Why should I be afflicted because of a thorn?
It is the thorn which taught me how to laugh."
Whatever you lost through fate,
be certain that it saved you from pain.
A Sheikh was asked: "What is Sufism?"
He said: "To feel joy in the heart acheter viagra en ligne when sorrow appears."


yourself from your selfish self
all heavenly spirits
will stand ready to serve you
if you can finally hunt down
your own beastly self
you have the right
to claim Solomon's cialis prescription kingdom

you are that blessed soul who
belongs to the garden of paradise
is it fair to let yourself
fall apart in a shattered house

you are the bird of happiness
in the magic of existence
what a pity when you let
yourself be chained and caged

but if you can break free
from this dark prison named body
soon you will see

It is your trun now i

It is your turn now,
you waited, you were patient.
The time has come,
for us to polish you.
We will transform your inner pearl
into a house of fire.
You're a gold mine.
Did you know that,
hidden in the dirt of the earth?
It is your turn now,
to be placed in fire.
Let us cremate your impurities.

Longing for the birds of solomon

Is this stuff poetry? It's what birds sing in cages.
Where are the words spoken by the birds of Solomon?

How would you know their cries, if you heard them,
When you haven't seen Solomon even for two seconds?

Solomon's bird lifts his wings, one tip touches East, one West.
Those who hear the notes feel an intensity in their whole body.

The bird descends from the Holy One's bedroom door to earth.
And from earth it flies among light back to the Great Seat.

Without Solomon every bird is a bat in love with darkness.
Listen, oh mischievous bat, try to become his friend. Do you want to stay
in your cave forever?

If you go even three feet towards Solomon's mountain,
Others will use that as a yardstick to measure their lives.

Suppose your leg is gimpy, and you have to hop, what's the difference?
Going toward Solomon, even by limping, the leg grows whole.




Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi, and more popularly in the English-speaking world simply as Rumi (30 September 1207 – 17 December 1273), was a 13th-century Persian poet, jurist, theologian, and Sufi mystic.

Iranians, Turks, Afghans, Tajiks, and other Central Asian Muslims as well as the Muslims of the Indian subcontinent have greatly appreciated his spiritual legacy in the past seven centuries. Rumi's importance is considered to transcend national and ethnic borders. His poems have been widely translated into many of the world's languages and transposed into various formats. In 2007, he was described as the "most popular poet in America."

Rumi's works are written in Persian and his Mathnawi remains one of the purest literary glories of Persia, and one of the crowning glories of the Persian language. A Persian literary renaissance (in the 8th/9th century), alongside the development of Sufism, started in regions of Sistan, Khorasan and Transoxiana and by the 10th/11th century, it reinforced the Persian language as the preferred literary and cultural language in the Persian world.

His original works are widely read today in their original language across the Persian-speaking world (Iran, Tajikistan, Afghanistan and parts of Persian speaking Central Asia). Translations of his works are very popular in other countries. His poetry has influenced Persian literature as well as Urdu, Punjabi, Turkish and some other Iranic, Turkic and Indic languages written in Perso-Arabic script e.g. Pashto, Ottoman Turkish, Chagatai and Sindhi.

Rumi was born to native Persian speaking parents, probably in the village of Wakhsh, a small town located at the river Wakhsh in Persia (in what is now Tajikistan). Wakhsh belonged to the larger province of Balkh (parts of now modern Afghanistan and Tajikistan), and in the year Rumi was born, his father was an appointed scholar there.

Source: wikipedia





O beautiful wine

O beautiful wine-bearer, bring forth the cup and put it to my lips
Path of love seemed easy at first, what came was many hardships.
With its perfume, the morning breeze unlocks viagra online those beautiful locks
The curl of those dark ringlets, many hearts to shreds strips.
In the house of my Beloved, how can I enjoy the feast
Since the church bells call the call that for pilgrimage equips.
With wine color your robe, one of the old Magi’s best tips
Trust in this traveler’s tips, who knows of many paths and trips.
The dark midnight, fearful waves, and the tempestuous whirlpool
How can he know of our state, while ports house his unladen ships.
I followed my own path of love, and now I am in bad repute
How can a secret remain veiled, if from every tongue it drips?

Where is sensible

Where is sensible action, & my insanity whence?
See the difference, it is from where to whence.
From the church & hypocritical vestments, I take offence
Where is the abode of the Magi, & sweet wine whence?
For dervishes, piety and sensibility make no sense
Where is sermon and hymn, & the violin's music whence.
Upon seeing our friend, our foes put up their defense
Where is a dead lantern, & the candle of the sun whence?
My eye-liner is the dust of your door and fence
Where shall I generic viagra cheap go, tell me, you command me whence?
Take your focus from your chin to the trap on the path hence,
Where to O heart, in such hurry you go whence?
May his memory of union be happy and intense
Where are your amorous gestures, & your reproach whence?
Make not restlessness & insomnia, Hafiz's sentence
What is rest, which is patience, and sleep whence?

That beautiful Shirazi

That beautiful Shirazi Turk, took control and my heart stole,
I'll give Samarkand & Bukhara, for her Hindu beauty mole.
O wine-bearer bring me wine, such wine not found in Heavens
By running brooks, in flowery fields, spend your days and stroll.
Alas, these sweet gypsy clowns, these agitators of our town
Took the patience of my heart, like looting Turks take their toll.
Such unfinished love as ours, the Beloved has no need,
For the Perfect Beauty, frills and adornments play no role.
I came to know Joseph's goodness, that daily would increase
Even the chaste Mistress succumbed to the love she would extol.
Whether profane or even cursed, I'll reply only in praise
Sweetness of tongue and the lips, even bitterness would enthrall.
Heed the advice of the wise, make your most endeared goal,
The fortunate blessed youth, listen to the old wise soul.
Tell tales of song and wine, seek not secrets of the world,
None has found and no-one will, knowledge leaves this riddle whole.
You composed poems and sang, Hafiz, you spent your days well
Venus wedded to your click here songs, in the firmaments' inverted bowl.

Kindly tell the tender

Kindly tell the tender deer, O morning breeze
I am wandering your desert and the wild countries.
Long live the sugar merchant, but why
Is he unkind to sweet lovers, the honey-bees?
Tender rose, pride in your goodness forbids
To ask the manic nightingale of his fantasies.
Only with gentle compassion can you trap the wise.
The wise bird from any snare simply flees.
I know not why there is no familiarity
With the tall, black eye, bright faced beauties.
When in company of friends, glass of wine in hand
Remember old companions who travel upon the breeze.
The only criticism that I can have of you;
For kindness, the beauties charge extortionate fees.
No wonder if in the heavens, as claims Hafiz;
Venus’ song brings Christ to dancing sprees.

O pious of the heart

O pious of the heart, I am lost in a love, so great
O pain the hidden secrets will become open debate.
Shipwrecked we just float, O favorable wind arise,
May we one more time gaze upon that familiar trait.
Passage of time and the stars, are but what we fantasize
For compassion and kindness, it is never too late.
In the circle of wine and roses, nightingale’s song is prize
With the aroma and the wine your senses satiate.
O Thou compassionate one, life giver and the wise
One day bestow thy grace upon this mendicant’s state.
For peace of this world and the next, understand what I advise
Magnanimity the lot of friends, and with foes try to relate.

In the land of repute, our passage they will dispute
If this will not suit, don’t stay mute, and transmute dictates of fate.

When destitute and in need, let your love and passion breed
Life’s alchemy, essence and seed, unimagined wealth shall create.

If unruly with pride, with a candle’s zeal your flame will rise
Beloved turns stone to lava, and molten wax manipulate.
The Grail contains but wine, if only you realize
Then the Kingdom of the world, at your feet prostrate.
The good and wise Magi, forgivers of lives and lies
Bearer bring good news, drunkards’ wine consecrate.
With this wine stained robe, Hafiz would never disguise
O untainted pure Master, exempt us from this fate.




JKhawaja Shamsu Din Muhammad Hafez-e Shirazi, known by his pen name Hafez (1325/26–1389/1390), was an Iranian poet. His collected works composed of series of Persian literature (Diwan) are to be found in the homes of most people in Iran, Afghanistan and Tajikistan, as well as elsewhere in the world, who learn his poems by heart and use them as proverbs and sayings to this day. His life and poems have been the subject of much analysis, commentary and interpretation, influencing post-fourteenth century Persian writing more than any other author.

Themes of his ghazals are the beloved, faith, and exposing hypocrisy. His influence in the lives of Iranians can be found in "Hafez readings" , frequent use of his poems in Persian traditional music, visual art and Persian calligraphy. His tomb is visited often. Adaptations, imitations and translations of Hafez' poems exist in all major languages.

Hafez was born in Shiraz, Persia [Iran]. Despite his profound effect on Persian life and culture and his enduring popularity and influence, few details of his life are known. Accounts of his early life rely upon traditional anecdotes. Early tazkiras (biographical sketches) mentioning Hafez are generally considered unreliable.[4] The preface of his Divan, in which his early life is discussed, was written by an unknown contemporary of Hafez whose name may have been Mo?ammad Golandam. Two of the most highly regarded modern editions of Hafez's Divan are compiled by Moammad Qazvini and Qasem ani (495 ghazals) and by Parviz Natil Khanlari (486 ghazals).

Modern scholars generally agree that Hafez was born either in 1315 or 1317; following an account by Jami 1390 is considered the year in which he died. Hafez was supported by patronage from several successive local regimes: Shah Abu Ishaq, who came to power while Hafez was in his teens; Timur at the end of his life; and even the strict ruler Shah Mubariz ud-Din Muhammad (Mubariz Muzaffar). Though his work flourished most under the twenty-seven year reign of Jalal ud-Din Shah Shuja (Shah Shuja), it is claimed Hafez briefly fell out of favor with Shah Shuja for mocking inferior poets (Shah Shuja wrote poetry himself and may have taken the comments personally), forcing Hafez to flee from Shiraz to Isfahan and Yazd, although no historical evidence of this is available.His mausoleum, Hafezieh, is located in the Musalla Gardens of Shiraz.

Source: wikipedia





A Fine Lonely Night

The furthermost bird of this world sings.
The night is neat, complete and wide.
And the moon whispers,
to the ears of the flowers,
to the ears of the twigs.
In front of the stairs,
amidst the profusion cialis 20mg online of the nightly breeze,
a torch in my hand,
I stand.
The lanes are calling your steps,
And your eyes are not to be the ornament of darkness!
Wash your eyes,
Wear your shoes-
and come!
Come with me!
Come until the moon’s hidden fingers warns!
Come until Time sits by your side!
Come until the night’s fragrance absorbs-
the entire weight of your limbs!
And then,
listen, listen again!
I know,
if you come this way,
there will be a wise, not far away,
who will tell you then:
“The best instant in life-
is the night you look into your eyes-
and they are wet, they are wet from-
the Incidence of Love.”

Light, Flower, Water

There is no trace of the clouds,
There is no sign of the breeze-
to bring them in.
I sit next to the pond:
The goldfish, the dancing rays of light, flowers and water:
The Immaculate Tree of Life.
My mother is picking mint-
about the fence of the yard;
Some bread, a few leaves of mint, a piece of cheese-
and a spotless sky, above the heap of mosit oleanders:
Salvation is not far-away!
It hides behinds the flowers-
in the yard.
The lights are caressing the clear water in my goblet-
And there it seems, the figment of stars are inviting the sun-
to this earth.
I think to myself:
everything tries to veil itself-
behind the shield of a lightly shell.
And then I see:
the hedge of time has a few wide-enough tears,
to let disclose my face- to the other world.
True, there are things that I don’t know,
And things that I know.
I know,
I can fly up to the top of that hill: I am full of feather and wing.
I can glance at the scene outside- in darkness of night and See: I am full of torch.
I am full of light and sand,
full of flower and plant,
full of lane, full of bridge, full of river and wave.
I am filled with the weightless glide of a leaf-
over the face of this pond.
I know,
how lonely,
how bare, I feel inside.

Close Faraways

The woman was at the door,
with her body of always.
I've got close:
My eyes traveled away-
a lengthy trip.

My words became wings,
then wings became hope,
and hope became insight,
the insight of sun.

I took a walk under the sun.
I got lost in the loads of lovely places:
I walked up to my childhood-
and the tryst of hands and sand.
I went down to the mist of mistakes and luring laughs.

I surfed on the waves of illustrated waters;
then I took a flight over to the colourful garden-
of blossomed pear trees.

And there,
with my body made of presence,
my pulse met with the shadow- of all the absolutely-trues,
and my amazement met, face to face,
with the serenity of the trees.

when the white knight of despair-
finally caught up with me,
I had to leave.
I left.

I went away- to the table;
to the freshness of bread and milk,
to the soft scent of tea and to the plain taste of vodka.
When I at last returned,
the woman was –still- at the door-
with her body of all wounds.

And then,
I noticed that the river's gorge-
is constantly hurt, by the sharp end-
of an empty tin can.

Green to Green

In this darkness,
I am thinking of a lightly lamb-
to graze the grass of my loneliness.

In this darkness,
I feel my stretched arms-
beneath the original rain-
that fell on the first generic viagra cheap prayers of men.

In this darkness,
I open a door to the ancient lanes,
and to the golden images carved-
on the walls of old, abandoned caves.

In this darkness,
I reached, I touched the roots.

in this unyielding night,
for the young thicket of death-
grown on the grass of my viagra online loneliness,
I sang- the undying verse of Water and Earth.

The Feathers of Whisper

We've got to wait-
for the snow to melt.
We've got to wait-
for the bells of the umbrellas to bend.

The trees are-
Still unfinished.

The papers' wings are tied to all this ice,
and also, are tied to ice- the flies' soaked eyes,
and are tied to this frost- the frogs' greenish smiles.

We've got to wait-
for the pot of hyacinth to flourish-
and the tray of Noruz* to replenish.

Right now, no one sings-
for the birthday of the twigs,
and no fluid tune- hits the feathers of my wits.

It is silent, there is only silence.
And I yearn for the air of a whisper.
Just a whisper!
What shall I do?

We've got to wait-
for the snow to melt.
We've got to wait-
for the bells of umbrellas to bend.
And in this frozen, silent season,
I yearn for the air of a whisper...
Just a whisper!
What shall I do?

I can still paint.
I can still paint- a colourful sparrow-
on the white sheets of my lonely sorrow.

The Friend

She was grand.
She was a noble native of today.

She was grand.
Her realm was all boundless spheres,
And she sensed, so intensely,
the ways of water and earth.

The tone of her voice pictured-
the anxious sadness of the truth.
Her eyes recalled the lively direction of roots.

And her hands, one day,
waved the tender steam of generosity
and floated us in the stream of care.

She played the intimacy of her soul,
And she portrayed the straightness of her love
in all sharp bends of her time,
for the mirrors.

She was alike the rain-
full of the freshness of flow.
She was alike trees-
spread in the ease of lights.

She was always calling-
The youthful years of the breeze
And she forever tied strings of her words
to the neat relevance of rivers.

One night, for us
she spelled, so plainly, the green prayer of innocence
that we reached out for the kind texture of the soil
and we revived… alike the refreshing accent of a pail.

Many times we saw:
with plenty of wooden baskets, she left
to gather

bushes of golden plaques.

But it couldn’t be
that she’d stand in front of the crystal belief of the birds.
Thus, she went to the limits of naught
and laid in the wake of white serenity of lights.

And she didn’t believe,
She didn’t believe at all,
that cut in between-
the revolted intonation of the gates
we would be left extremely alone.

Even to taste a piece of fruit,
we are now left massively alone.

Message of The Goldfish

I was lonesome, really lonesome.
I stopped by the pond-
I thought to myself:
“I might see-
the picture buy viagra online of my loneliness
in the mirror of waters”.

The pond was empty, almost empty.
But I heard the goldfish-
saying to me:

"Don’t you see?
The pond is empty,
But it is not our fault,
it is not the fault of the trees!

It is warm summer,
and the playful water-
laid under the sun, the entire day,
and the sun- soared it away-
up to the skies.

Is there someone to care,
If we can hardly breathe?
And when the breezes dance-
we cannot slip over the waves?

The image of Sun,
The heavenly flower of Sunlight,
was our only window to the paradise lost,
in this prison, in this tiny pond.

If you happen to meet with God,
in your wandering around
let him know of our pond-
about this drought!"

The breeze, was marching slowly-
towards the shades of the trees;
And I was wandering around to perhaps,
Somewhere, I catch up with God.

A message on the go

One day,
I will come back and bring you a message.
I will come back and pour light in veins.

I will sing:
“O You! Carrying darkness in your bags!
I brought you apple, apple!
The Golden Apple of Sun! ”

One day,
I will come and I give a daffodil to the errant.
I will explain to the blind, the true verse of light-
and the colourful weight of sight.
Like a nomad, I will wander around.
I will dance, sing, dance!

I will soulfully chant-
an ode for the rainbows,
an anthem of the dews.

There is an beggar that I know, he tells me always:
“It is the dark night of the truth indeed”.
I will give him his share-
of the big world.

There is a lonely girl that I know, waiting on a bridge.
I will give her- her share of the sky.
I will erase all the walls.
I will let the thieves know:
“There is only smile left to steal”.

I will tie all the eyes to Sun,
And all acheter cialis the hearts to Love,
All the shadows to Water,
And all the twigs to the breeze.

With my colourful chulks,
I will draw a line,
from the acheter cialis children’s dreams-
to the nightly song of the crickets.

One day,
I will come and leave a rose in front of every door;
I will sing in front of each and every window;
I will plant a pine for the flock of crows;
And I will explain to the serpents-
the wondrous life of the frog.

I will make peace.
I will make friends.
I will sway.

I will swim in the torrent of light.
Then, I will take on a flight-
And I will love.


We shouldn’t muddy the water.
A pigeon may drink it down the road
Or in a far away grove a starling may bathe Or in the village,
a jug may be filled. We shouldn’t muddy the water.
This running water may feed a poplar and wash away sadness from a heavy heart.
A dervish may dip his dry bread in it.
A pretty woman may come to the river bank We shouldn’t muddy the water The beauty will be doubled.
What refreshing water! What limpid river!
How pure the uptown people are May their springs always boil and their cows always milk!
I have not seen their village. But, no doubt, god walks along their wattles The Moon,
over there, lights the width generic cialis cheap of words No doubt, uptown, the walls are short.
Their people know what a poppy is. No doubt, over there, blue is blue.
The people know when a flower blooms.
What a village it would be! May its garden alleys be filled with music!
The people from the head of the river know water.
They did not muddy it, Neither should we.


We shouldn’t muddy the water.
A pigeon may drink it down the road “Where is the friend’s house?”
Horseman asked by twilight and, The sky paused.
The passerby presented sands,
the branch of light that he had in mouth And pointed to a poplar tree and said: “Before reaching the tree,
There is a garden alley that is greener than God’s sleep And in it,
love is as blue as the feathers of honesty.
Go to the end of the alley which stops at the back of adolescence.
Then turn to the flower of loneliness, Two steps short of reaching the flower,
Stay by the fountain of eternal myth of earth And you feel a transparent fear.
And in the fluid sincerity of the air, you will hear a scratch:
You will see a child Who has gone up the pine tree, t
o grab a bird from the nest of light And you ask him Where the friend’s house is.”

The Old Tale of Night

O you lost in the stellar green wonders!

The fig of ignorance Epitomizes the virgin rocks
The heart of water is pining For the reflection of a garden
The everyday apple tastes of illusion in the mouth.
O old fear! My fingers went numb when you came to me.Tonight My hands know no fear:
Tonight they pluck fruits From the branches of myths.
Tonight Each tree bears As many leaves as my fears.
Audacious speech thawed in the burning meeting of eyes O colorful beginnings!
Protect my eyes from the evil magic:
I am still Dreaming of Unknown nocturnal blessings.
I am still Thirsting for Wavy waters.
My buttons Look like ancient magic words.
On the meadows We had our last carnal feast before words began.
In this feast, the music of stars Fell upon my ears from inside the potteries.
And my eyes reflected the swarms of migrating magicians.
O ancient mirror of narcissus in sorrow! Ecstasy carried me away.-
To the realm of growth? - Perhaps Let us drink water of wisdom when we thirst for speech.




Sohrab Sepehri (October 7, 1928 - April 21, 1980) was a notable modern Persian poet and a painter. He was born in Kashan in Isfahan province.

He is the most popular figure of Iranian modern poetry. His literary style is simple and verses are written in a way very close to spoken language. Some of his poems have either meter or a mild melody while some others have no meter and no rhyme. His most popular poems, however, belong to the former category.

In his poems he talks about the relationship between nature and human spirit. They mainly turn around the idea of re-discovering and returning to the roots and appreciating its beauty and serenity instead of giving in to the down-ward spiral of modern life’s preoccupations. He died in Tehran of leukemia at the age of 51.

In the course of his development as a poet and painter, Sepehri went through different phases of preoccupation with one or another tenet of his personal poetics and ultimate world vision. For practical purposes, we can break these down into five general periods, the first of which is a classical one comprising various ghazals , quatrains and, foremost, in the style of Iraj Mirza’s (1874-1926) Zohra o Manucehr. Written in classical meter, these works are replete with traditional tropes and imagery, and reveal the sentimentality of a teenage poet emulating his late 19th century Persian predecessors. Though Sepehri would later discard all of these poems as naïve, they remain nevertheless critically valuable as they demonstrate both his familiarity with prosodic and imaginal staples of Persian classical poetry, and the span of his linguistic and stylistic trajectory as a poet.

Source: wikipedia





Age Seven

Ay, age seven
Ay, the magnanimous moment of departure
Whatever happened after you,
happened in a mesh of insanity and ignorance.

After you,
the window which was a lively and bright connection
between the bird and us
between the breeze and us
after you,
that earthly doll which did not utter a thing,
nothing but water
in water.

After you,
we killed the cricket's voice
we became lured
by the bell ring rising off of the letters of the alphabet
and the whistling of the arms factory.

After you, where our playground was beneath the desk
we graduated from beneath the desks
to behind the desks
and from behind the desks
to top of the desks
and we played on top of the desks
and lost
we lost your color
Aah, age seven.

After you,
we betrayed each other
after you,
we cleansed your memories
by lead particles and splattered blood-drops
off of the plastered temples of alley walls.

after you
we went to the squares
and shouted:
'long live...
and down with....'

and in the clamor of the square
we applauded the little singing coins
which had insidiously come to visit our town.

After you,
us: each other's murderers,
judged love
and while our hearts were anxious in our pockets,
we judged love's share.

After you
we resorted to cemeteries and death was breathing under the grandmother's veil
and death
was that corpulent tree
which the living of this side of the 'origin'
would tie their desire-thread to its weary branches
and the dead of the other side of the 'end'
would paw at its phosphorous roots
and death
was sitting on that sacred mausoleum which had four blue tulips
abruptly lighting up at its four corners.

the sound of the wind is coming
the sound of the wind is coming
Aah, age seven.

I rose up and drank water
and suddenly recollected how the plantations of your youth
became agitated by the swarm of crickets.

how cheap viagra canada much must one pay?
how much for the growth of this cemented cubicle?

We lost everything we must have lost
we started treading without a lantern
and moon
the kind Feminine
was always there
in the childhood memories of a clay and straw rooftop
and above the young plantations
dreading the swamp of crickets.

How much must one pay?......

Translated by: Leila Farjami

Border Walls

Now, again in the silent night,
sequestrant walls, border walls
like plants entwine,
so they may be the guardians of my love.

Now, again the town's evil murmurs,
like agitated schools of fish,
flee the darkness of my extremities.

Now, again windows rediscover themselves
in the pleasure of contact with scattered perfumes,
and trees, in slumberous orchards, shed their bark,
and soil, with its thousand inlets
inhales the dizzy particles of the moon.

come closer
and listen
to the anguished beats of my love,
that spread
like the tom-tom of African drums
along the tribe of my limbs.

I, feel.
I know
which moment
is the moment of prayer.

Now stars
are lovers.

In night's refuge,
from innermost breezes, I waft.
In night's refuge, I
tumble madly forth
with my ample tresses, in your palms,
and I offer you the equatorial flowers of this young tropic.

Come with me,
come to that star with me
that is centuries away
from earth's concretion and futile scales,
and no one there
is afraid of light.

On islands adrift upon the waters, I breathe.
I am in search of a share in the expansive sky,
void of the swell of vile thoughts.

Refer with me,
refer with me
to the source of all being,
to the sanctified center of a single origin,
to the moment I was created from you
refer with me,
I am not complete from you.

on the peaks of my breasts,
doves are flying.
within the cocoon of my lips,
butterfly kisses are immersed in thoughts of flight.
the altar of my body
is ready for love's worship.

Refer with me,
I'm powerless to speak
because I love you,
because 'I love you' is viagra a phrase
from the world of futilities
and antiquities and redundancies.
Refer with me,
I'm powerless to speak.

In night's refuge, let me make love to the moon,
let me be filled
with tiny raindrops,
with undeveloped hearts,
with the volume of the unborn,
let me be filled.
Maybe my love
will cradle the birth of another Christ.

Translated by Layli Arbab Shirani

Conquest of the Garden

The crow that flew over us and sank-
in the confusion of a vagabond cloud;
The crow that swiftly crossed-
the extent of the sphere-
like a short arrow-
will tell about us-
in the town.

Everybody knows.
Everybody knows that you and I,
looked through the oblique crack of the wall-
and saw The Garden.

Everybody knows.
Everybody knows that you and I,
reached for the trembling branch of The Tree-
and picked the apple.

Everybody is scared.
Everybody is scared but you and I,
together joined lights,
mirrors and water-
and feared never.

For you and I,
it is not about a frail union of two names-
in the aged pages of a registrar notebook.
It is about my fortunate locks-
and the burning stroke of your kiss.

For you and I,
it is about the imminence of our skins-
in the sacred wellspring of lightly streams,
swiftly sliding -over the waterfalls and the hills.

it is about the fountain’s songs-
its fleeting flight, its short, silvery life.

You and I,
in the core of a darkened night,
in the fluid freshness of forests,
on the peak of shielding mounts,
and in a freezing fearful sea-
asked young, golden eagles-
what we ought to do.

Everybody knows.
Everybody knows that we pierced-
into the silent dream of Phoenix.

Everybody knows.
Everybody knows that you and I,
In the prairies and the plains-
reached to the glittering roots-
of Truth.

Everybody knows.
Now, everybody knows that you and I,
in an endless instant, conquered the entirety of Eternity.

For you and I,
It is not about a shaking whisper in the dark.
It is about Day and its invading spark.
It is about a breeze over the fertile side.
It is about birth, evolution and pride.

It is about burning every futile piece-
in the garnet core of the flames.

And it is about our hands-
that contrived a bridge,
concrete and bright,
over the tear of night.

Come to the turf!
Come to the turf-
and call my name!
Call my name-
with a choral of white lilies-
like a gazelle who calls his mate.

The shades of dusk-
are floating in their veiled sorrow.

And doves,
from the windows of their white tower-
are looking at Earth.

Come to the turf!

Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, May 2006.

I Feel Little Garden’s Pain

I speak out of the deep of night
out of the deep of darkness
and out of the deep of night I speak.

If you come to my house, friend
bring me a lamp and a window I can look through
at the crowd in the happy alley.

The Feathers of Whisper

Nobody cares for flowers.
Nobody cares for birds.

Nobody wants to believe that Little Garden is dying,
Nobody wants to believe that Little Garden’s heart-
is swollen in this parching heat.

Nobody wants to know that Little Garden's mind-
is slowly losing its green past.

And viagra online it seems that Little Garden's sense is a distinct piece,
perishing fast, in the isolating scent of the air.

It Is Only Sound That Remains

Why should I stop, why?
the birds have gone in search
of the blue direction.
the horizon is vertical, vertical
and movement fountain-like;
and at the limits of vision
shining planets spin.
the earth in elevation reaches repetition,
and air wells
changes into tunnels of connection;
and day is a vastness,
which does not fit into narrow mind
of newspaper worms.

why should I stop?
the road passes through the capillaries of life,
the quality of the environment
in the ship of the uterus of the moon
will kill the corrupt cells.
and in the chemical space after sunrise
there is only sound,
sound that will attract the particles of time.
why should I stop?

what can a swamp be?
what can a swamp be but the spawning ground
of corrupt insects?
swollen corpses scrawl the morgue's thoughts,
the unmanly one has hidden
his lack of manliness in blackness,
and the bug... ah,
when the bug talks,
why should I stop?
cooperation of lead letters is futile,
it will not save the lowly thought.
I am a descendant of the house of trees.
breathing stale air depresses me.
a bird which died advised me to
commit flight to memory.
the ultimate extent of powers is union,
joining with the bright principle of the sun
and pouring into the understanding of light.
it is natural for windmills to fall apart.

why should I stop?
I clasp to my breast
the unripe bunches of wheat
and breastfeed them

sound, sound, only sound,
the sound of the limpid wishes
of water to flow,
the sound of the falling of star light
on the wall of earth's femininity
the sound of the binding of meaning's sperm
and the expansion of the shared mind of love.
sound, sound, sound,
only sound remains.

in the land of dwarfs,
the criteria of comparison
have always traveled in the orbit of zero.
why should I stop?
I obey the four elements;
and the job of drawing up
the constitution of my heart
is not the business
of the local government of the blind.

what is the lengthy whimpering wildness
in animals sexual organs to me?
what to me is the worm's humble movement
In its fleshy vacuum?
the bleeding ancestry of flowers
has committed me to life.
are you familiar with the bleeding
ancestry of the flowers?

Love Song

My nights are painted bright with your dream, sweet love
and heavy with your fragrance is my breast.
you fill my eyes with your presence, sweet love.
giving me more happiness than grief.
like rain washing through the soil
you have washed my life clean.
you are the heartbeat of my burning body;
a fire blazing in the shade of my eyelashes.
you are more bountiful than the wheat fields,
more fruit-laden than the golden boughs.
against the onslaught of darkening doubts
you are a door thrown open to the suns.
when I am with you, I

fear no pain
for my only pain is a pain of happiness.
this sad heart of mine and so much light?
sounds of life from the bottom of a grave?

Your eyes are my pastures, sweet love
the stamp of your gaze burning deep into my eyes.
if I had you within me before, sweet love
I would not take anybody else for you.
oh it's a dark pain, this urge of wanting;
setting out, belittling oneself fruitlessly;
laying one's head on chests hiding a black heart;
soiling one's breast with ancient hatred;
finding a snake in a caressing hand;
discovering venom behind friendly smiles;
putting coins into deceitful hands;
getting lost in the midst of bazaars.

You are my breath of life, sweet love,
you have brought me back to life from the grave.
you have come down from the distant sky,
like a star on two golden wings
silencing my loneliness, sweet love,
Imbuing my body with odors of your embrace.
you are water to the dry streams of my breasts,
you are a torrent to the dry bed of my veins.
in a world so cold and as bleak,
in step with your steps, I proceed.

You are hidden under my skin
flowing through my every cell,
singeing my hair with your caressing hand,
leaving my cheeks sunburned with desire.
you are, sweet love, a stranger to my dress
but so familiar with the fields of my nakedness.
o bright and eternal sunrise,
the strong sunshine of southern climes,
you are fresher than early dawn,
fresher and better-watered than spring-tide.
this is no longer love, it is dazzlement,
a chandelier blazing amidst silence and darkness.
ever since love was awakened in my heart,
I have become total devotion with desire.
this is no longer me, no longer me,
oh wasted are the years I lived with 'me.'
my lips are the altar of your kisses, sweet love
my eyes watching out for the arrival of your kiss.

You are the convulsions of ecstasy in my body,
like a garment, the lines of your figure covering me.
oh I am going to burst open like a bud,
my joy becoming tarnished for a moment with sorrow.
oh I wish to jump to my feet
and pour down tears like a cloud

This sad heart of mine and burning incense?
music of harp and lyre in a prayer-hall?
this empty space and such flights?
this silent night and so much song?
your gaze is like a magic lullaby, sweet love,
a cradle for restless babies.
your breathing is a breeze half-asleep
washing down all my tremors of anguish;
it is hidden in the smiles of my tomorrows,
it has sunken deep into the depths of my worlds.

You have touched me with the frenzy of poetry;
pouring fire into my songs,
kindling my heart with the fever of love,
thus setting all my poems ablaze, sweet love.

Translated By Karim Emami

Another Birth

A dark and chanted verse is what I am
Forever bearing you
In myself imbued with you
Forth to the morning of eternal burgeonings and blooms
Oh yes I drew you through this verse oh breath
Oh yes I drew you through
This verse and crafted you
To seas to trees to fire I grafted you.

Life may be
A street crossed by a woman with a basket every day
Life may

Rope for a man who hangs himself from a branch.
Life may be a child coming home from school.
Life may be a cigarette lighting
Up in the narcotic pause between lovemaking and love made
Or the dazed gaze of a passerby
Tipping his hat to a passerby
With a senseless smile and a Good Morning.
Life may be that cloistered moment
When my gaze comes to ruin in your pupils
Wherein there lies a feeling
Which I shall blend
With the moon's impression
And the night's perception.
In a room the size of loneliness
My heart the size of love
Looks at the simple pretext of its happiness,
The vase's flowers, their beautiful decay,
The sapling that you implanted in our garden
And the canaries' song
Wide as a window frame.

My lot is this
My lot is this
This sky abducted from my sight by a hung curtain,
This passage down a deserted stairway
To retrieve something from amid the rot and banished thoughts.
My lot is a sad promenade in nostalgia's garden,
My lot is to catch my death in the despair of the voice that says to me
'I love
Your hands.'

I shall plant my hands in the garden
And I will grow I know I know oh I know
And in my hand's inkstained hollow
The swallow
Shall lay its eggs.

I shall wear
A pair of cherries as ear-rings
And dress my nails with dahlia petals
There is an alley where
Boys who were in love with me even now
Linger with the very unkempt hair and lanky legs
Recollecting the innocent smiles of a little girl
The wind blew away one night.

There is an alley my heart
Has stolen from my childhood's neighborhood

A form journeying along time's line
Inseminating time's dry line with form
A form aware of an image
Back from a mirror's more feast

And that is how it is
That somebody dies
While someone abides
None who fish
In the tiny stream that drains out into a ditch
Can ever fish up a pearl.

Know a sad little ocean sprite
Down in her watery haven
Who oh so softly
Plays her heart through a flute,
A sad little sprite
Who dies from a kiss at night
To be born from a kiss at dawn.

I Will Greet The Sun Again

I am sending
my warmest greetings to the sun,
and to the tender rivers that streamed in my veins,
and to the raining clouds that forever carried- my endless dreams
to the other side.

my greetings go
to the poplar trees in the yard
and their sore but graceful aging
under the comes and goes of sun:
They escorted me in all chilly visit
sof dry times.

I am sending my greetings to the dark crowd of crows:
They always brought me the refreshing scent of nightly crops.

my greetings go to my mother
who stayed and lived in the mirror,
and looked like my aged face.

And my greetings to this earth, this generous earth
that the thrill of repeating me, filled its aroused inside- with countless greening seeds.

I will come, I will come,
I will arrive.

I will arrive:
With my flowing locks:
the winged scent of Earth;
With my eyes:
the cialis online cheap bright insight of Night

And I will bring to you
all the flowers that I picked
from the other side of the wall.

I will come, I will come,
I will arrive.

And then,
all the closed gates will be shattered by Love,
And all the forsaken isles will be invaded by Love,
And there, I will greet everybody who loves.

And, I know:
There will be a girl,
still standing in front of the gates,
those soaked gatesin the Deluge of Love.
I will greet her again as well.
I will greet her again as well.




Forugh Farrokhzad (January 5, 1935, Tehran, Iran — February 13, 1967) was an Iranian poet and film director. Forugh Farrokhzad is arguably one of Iran's most influential female poets of the twentieth century. She was a controversial modernist poet and an iconoclast.

Forugh (also spelled Forough) was born in Tehran to career military officer Colonel Mohammad Bagher Farrokhzad and his wife Touran Vaziri-Tabar in 1935. The third of seven children (Amir, Massoud, Mehrdad, Fereydoun Farrokhzad, Pooran Farrokhzad, Gloria), she attended school until the ninth grade, then was taught painting and sewing at a girl's school for the manual arts. At age sixteen she was married to Parviz Shapour, an acclaimed satirist. Farrokhzad continued her education with classes in painting and sewing and moved with her husband to Ahvaz. A year later, she bore her only child, a son named Kamyar (subject of A Poem for You).

Source: wikipedia





An Ode To A Tree

You are the tall figure of desire, O' tree

The sky embraces you at all times
You are tall, O' tree

Your hands are full of stars and your soul full of spring
You are beautiful, O' tree

When winds make a nest in your tangled leaves,
When winds comb your green hair,

are fantastic, O' tree

When the wild fingers of rain grasp you,
In its cold feast
You are the sad, sweet-singing musician, O' tree

Under your feet,
Here is night and night-struck people whose eyes
Have not seen the day
How is it that you have seen the day?
How is it that you have seen the sun?
And you are amazingly gazing at them, O' tree!

As you bound the earthly people by a thousand strings,
Don't be scared of thunder,
Don't be scared of lightning.
You will prevail, O' tree

Don't rebel, O'scared tree that like our hope,
You are with us, but still lonely, O' tree.

My Flower, O Spring of Liberty!

Everywhere the verdant spring is breathing,
The fervent tulip is busy dancing,
O my flower, you also blossom,
The spring has arrived,
It has arrived,

Boil out of the mountain's heart like the anemone,
Smile like lotus upon the stream's bank,
Make music, sing and revel again with coyness,
Begin a anew life,

Give happy tidings,
Say that daytime has arrived,
Night has expired,
The sun is smiling!

My flower, O blossom of joy!
My flower, O spring of liberty!

Blood Pact

Your stature
Cannot contain within the framework of poetry,
It cannot sit still,
To let me make a sketch,
Worthy to remain lasting.

Which flint stone
Should I shatter,
Turn into pulp and
Put it
On a blazing Damavand furnace
To polish your steel?

How can I gather kindness and anger
How can I challenge the sun with a sword?
How can I let the blinking stars
Flow like the river?
How can I lay a hope like dawn
In the black heart of this dark night?
How can I
Engrave your eyes?

Let me sit in silence,
Patient and in ambuscade,
And watch
The swinging of the waves,
Perhaps a wave of strange fish
May fall in my trap and then I
Can sketch
An image of your tireless remembrance.

O combatant river!
O searching river!
O rushing river, stop for a while,
Till age itself
Shall array its youth in your bosom.

Stay till the traveler's companion
Can refresh his sad rose
With your gaiety;
Stay until the child
Can reach the sea with you;
Until one like me
Can write
The wisdom of change of fire
On the water.

But you cannot be contained,
You cannot sit,
You cannot stay, O freeborn!
And I
Will record your recollection
On the blood woven canvas of my heart
With the perfume of the age of iron and tyranny
And the color of unbreakable metal of pain...

A recollection,
Like the silk dress of a March morning
And the body of storm
And the rejoicing of hundred thousands handkerchiefs and eyes
And the contented look of rice plantation
Over the hill,
Which drinks milk and honey.

You shared your bread and name with us,
And pledged our honor.
Now O ancient youth!
Be like eternal wine
To our friends.

The Rice Farmer

The sky has streamed onto the river’s blue The image of dusk’s sorrow
A girl at water’s edge
On a white rock
Beneath a purple cloud
Washes her feet, feet encrusted with mud and dirt.

She washes her feet and thinks:
work in the rice field."
In the heart of the dark river
Races the glimmer of evening's only start
And from that white figure
Sitting on that while rock
Locks of hair spread onto the water A gaze lost in the rice field.

Road Workers

The thirst-ridden desert
A sun drenched road
The flight of the warm wind
The deliberate wun.

The vast silence
A single black tent
The fine hot gravel
The dry eyes of the well.
The silhouette of a few men
On the veil of dust

The wave

Swimming toward invisible shores,
We were two traveling waves,
We were two wayfaring waves.
Our flight,
Our need,
Our fall,
Our rise,
Our joyful speed, together;
Our innocent struggle, united.
What motions we had on the cloak of the sea

One night in a strong whirlwind, on the crest of a swell,
She was torn from my embrace;
I was viagra online cheap separated from her side;
Our disunited pearls severed and streamed on the water.
Since then in search of my lost kindred soul,
On this sunless sea
Whose bright beacon she once was,
I go lamenting in every direction, I run alone down every path.




Siavash Kasraie (also spelled as Siavash Kasrai) was an Iranian poet. Kasraie graduated from Tehran University, Faculty of Law. A native of Isfahan, his first collection of poetry was published in 1957. His second book, Arash the Archer (1959), brought him immediate fame. This epic narrative, based on ancient Persian myth, depicts Arash's heroic sacrifice to liberate his country from foreign domination.

In his historical stories, Kasraie demonstrates a clear sense of class-consciousness. Kasraie's basic impulse was lyric, rather than epic. He reflects his individual personality in his poems. He's composed many revolutionary poems, of which some have served as anthem for political parties.

Source: wikipedia