Poems of Persian Poets

Moon dust I haven't seen a flower or a bud on my lap, what good have I seen from my walks in the garden and the meadows, I have not covered anyone's lap with dust, why have they all removed their laps? When his imagination came to my hut at night, I opened my tongue with gratitude for my bright luck, when he saw the jealous eye of my star, I looked for me and closed it with anger, I did not value my clothes, I am light-hearted because I did not put my clothes on my naked body . Dear me, I sewed him to the skirt of the wheel, the hem of the golden cloud. Every dawn, I sat down with my needle. from his own body torch May I say that the city is full of our secret stories ? that the long stories are obvious to a raw secret of ours, even though each sonnet burns us like a flame , the flame of love, the flame of our hundred languages, even if it becomes our tulip, what is the sadness of the blood of our hearts? that the flourishing of a garden is from our gardening to the grave of Mehr, the evening, the red blood of Shafaq, a painful story of our youth is written in the night to Mehr, and see that the jealous wheel