The world is one, it is for all.
The universe has only one God.
We are all the children of Adam.
So why are some peasants,
while others are born above,
proud of what they claim to be?
Who knows the answer to this?
We are all waiting for the day
When one comes from the heights
To answer—and to heal this divide.
Feb 8
Feb 8, 2026 at 4:35 AM UTC
Persian, you live in my bones—
language of my mother, my first music.
I love you the way I love breath,
the way I love waking.
You make my poetry bloom,
color rushing into every line.
When I write in you, I am home.
When I leave you, I am homesick.
English, I respect you—
I've learned your weather, your rooms.
But Persian, you are the house itself,
the walls that hold my sleep.
I love you as much as my mother—
no, I love you because you are my mother,
the voice that named me,
the first poem I ever heard.
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 3:11 PM UTC
The year turns anew,
Christmas trees grow ever tall,
We drift into age.
Dec 28, 2025
Dec 28, 2025 at 5:17 AM UTC
A frozen window,
Awaken all the last night,
Waiting for the Sun.
Dec 23, 2025
Dec 23, 2025 at 1:53 AM UTC
Shall I compare thee to the winter’s snow? Thou art much whiter and more valuable.
Yet February's chill dims snow's bright glow,
But thy deep grace does remain perpetual.
The school kids love the snowman more than you,
They find no joy in lessons or in rhyme;
But wise and elder hearts know what is true,
And see the seeds of figs in wintertime.
King Midas’ gold and all his fame is gone,
For earthly riches are not truly felt;
Like melting snow they vanish in the dawn,
While in my words, your beauty will never melt.
So long Shakespeare's sonnet 18 is read,
So long you will be alive and not dead.
Dec 22, 2025
Dec 22, 2025 at 6:52 AM UTC
The snow is here, the world is laughing, The world in white, in everything. The farmer’s hands reach towards the heavens, To thank the Lord for all the givens.
In his eyes, the snow is a golden farm, Where every flake is worth a wealth of gold. He sees it in the yellow seeds of figs, And in the ears of wheat that wait in cold.
The children are jumping together, They laugh as they gather the snow, Working with all of their might, To make a big snowman of white.
Oh my God, watch the trees in white, As beautiful and shy as brides. Who is the groom and where is he now? Is he the snowman? No, the clouds are the groom.
A shopkeeper watches from his window, He laughs with his heart and whispers low; At first, he sees the snow as money and silver, Then he sees it as gold, a treasure to deliver.
But then he thinks of the Bible and Quran, That snow is more than any earthly thing. It is the life—not only for people, but for all creatures, Even for the stones, snow is the gold for gold itself.
It sees all souls with equal rank and power, For snow, a king and a poor man are the same. The snow is white, and when it falls, A blanket of peace, it covers all.
If one says spring is more beautiful, I think they blind their eyes to winter's light For winter is the mother of the seasons, And the snow is the mother of blossoms.
Oh now, lovely snow, come and shine, To bring deep peace and love to all the world.
— Hamid Hassanshahinejad © 2025
Dec 20, 2025
Dec 20, 2025 at 9:50 AM UTC
The red sun brushes
the moon’s yellow hair slowly —
and the white cloud laughs
Dec 18, 2025
Dec 18, 2025 at 3:57 AM UTC
My only wish in life is being you —
The light within my eyes is seeing you.
The sum of all my longing, lovely one,
Is staying near you, breathing in your hue
Dec 16, 2025
Dec 16, 2025 at 1:12 PM UTC
(After a borrowed opening line, my own verse follows)
The sky inscribed my fate with its own pen,
Then sealed my fortune, darkening my days.
O God, shatter the inkwell of Heaven —
For all I’d woven, it unraveled, erased
Dec 16, 2025
Dec 16, 2025 at 4:33 AM UTC