Instead of tulip,
Heavy snowflakes are
Whitening the city and,
The eyelashes of the beauties
With the marbled headscarf

The March finds me
In the old city
Where diverse opinions are mixed
Tonight I drink the tea
Without porcelain Samovar
The sounds of Santoor are
Following the exhausted letters and
I tired of the shades of the clerics

The poet is longingly reckoning
As he wants to embrace
A bowed orphan
Innocent
Till heaven

Yet few drops of pleasant
Essences remained
Before my departure
I’m keen to leave again
And I know why…?