Poets and writers strife to be the best,
By offering the magic of words down,
While still narrating what's within their chest,
Trying to conquer Fame's and Glamour's crown.
But the verses and pearls who I do write,
Are neither for fame, neither for a name,
Only for preserving the lovely sight,
That's sometimes mundane or adorned with fame.
Because, how else could I preserve these things
That range from sorrow, from love to nature,
Other than placing them in my writings,
While feeling also a harmless pleasure?
  Let seekers dive in the rivers of ranks,
  And me enjoy along the riverbanks.

Something at twilight's silent time I heard this spring:
Finally the nightingale has returned this spring!

Last spring was a roller-coaster of love and hate,
I hope that that ride will not be concerned this spring.

Lovers melt the cage of the winter with dances,
I ask, who will be loved, who will be burned this spring?

The roses on cheeks and the roses in gardens,
Again slowly to crimoisy they turned this spring.

'O winter come, summer go! Spring come, autumn go!'
Said Gihon; for all kinds of things he yearned, this spring!

Once core of the Land of The Rising Sun,
Where the business of Emperors were done.

Over a thousand-years a capital,
Flourishing art and culture of people.

Most cities emerged from little bazaars,
From little candles to luminous stars.

But now a city of customs and calm,
Where all the fine-arts and culture blooms from.

Cities like these are filled with mystery,
Alluring folks from distance silently.

I didn't had to see your flowing eyes,
Who're from me far away,
To taste the taste of your sorrowful cries,
Who's stream is a long way.

O streets of cities! Have you drunk more tears
Of the miserable ones,
Than the pearls who are bestowed from out skies,
Every night, every day?

We thought we wouldn't cry in-front the smiles
Of sinister sirens,
Who are the witches of the night and lies,
Full of tricks and of play.

The thick haze of the room are not from smoke
Who are by sweet smiles blown,
But by the bitter mouth who exhales sighs,
Who're never blown away.

Mâhî, the singer laments his own fault
Into a wise lesson,
Didn't he tell you to be smart and wise
At cities where traps stay?

She spoke to me when it was quite,
In a silky voice late at night,
With hair so dark like skies at dusk,
Perfumed perhaps with scents of musk,
Saying: 'Don't hurry to get right.'

The beauty that resides in sights and face,
Are those spectacles who motivate me,
Even if they are from a foreign place,
Or compared to me look differently.
'Cause beauty is but veiled in appearance,
All around the world where beings are seen
By eyes who can perceive their presence,
As long as they all are for beauty keen.

Beauty and elegance does lie
Within each move and act of them,
While passing by each looking eye,
Styled with a flower-diadem
Where each petal shines like a gem
Whenever fondled by moonlight,
Or appearing in-front eyesight,
Decorating the rainy streets,
Where they walk at day and at night,
While this world of them flits and fleets.

This flower-tradition should stay,
Of pure entertainment with smiles,
Who's to History a gateway,
To find the ancient arts and styles,
Or else it will take us much miles
To return to the fleeting past,
Who for a small portion does last
Particularly in their own being
Who's almost replaced by the fast
Roads who are all from past fleeing.