We go to the country to welcome the sorrow of the country, because we are deprived of our feet, we go with our heads

We have gone this way a hundred times and we are going once again, we are going to welcome Sagar.

Since it is not possible to walk, we turn to Dostnameh and go with the wings of a pigeon

Now, fresh anxiety is falling on my hair, a breeze is blowing, my leaves are falling from Shiraz.

Eisham’s lips sing to every age, but Shionam’s tongue pours a thousand praises every time

I have a heart that says salt in the embrace of the ointment for its sore wounds and yawns after yawns.

I wonder if the patterns of our patience will come true, that the love of this plan will pour immeasurably.