O soul of mine, O sufferer of sadness,
    Leave all the pills, believe in yourself,
I'm sure you can withstand the drowning madness,
    Leave them for a day on the wooden shelf.
Be strong; you are a Poet after all,
    A sorcerer of words who's rarely seen,
Even then, glorious will be your fall,
    For you'll achieve a state who's pure and clean.
No medication anymore, no more!
    Step out the door, behold chaotic moves.
What has the world today for you in store?
    You do enjoy the rush, excitement proves.
It's so easy to say these words, but still
I can't go on a day without a pill.

گفتم چرا این جلوه و ناز
گفت زیرا خواهید کرد نیاز

The colorful tears of youth are the warmest,
The most lonely in a world you don't know,
Because you haven't been here for the longest
Time since birth, step by step we all did grow.

We're always struck by our uncertain stars,
While still opening up, trying to find
The answers of this life, with smiles and scars,
Praying in different ways they stay aligned.

O God, forgive the flowers of this world!
We are so young, and thus so flawed,
Forgive our faults; our cheeks are pearled,
While we're always by Your creation awed.

Let us all strive our best to reach our goal,
Before we're one day called back with our soul.

I do not want to part from your sweet smile!
(Who blesses me sweetly with soothing bliss)
Even though I know it is for a while,
'Twas not enough for me, that parting kiss.

I will go far away, the road is long,
So far away from you, for quite a long time,
Thus I want you to listen to my song
Of separation's woe, weaved with a rhyme.

But oh! there is something: a light called hope,
Who's my dear friend, usually at my side
When rest and peace are near, so I can cope
With all the pain, like breathing oceans wide.

Although I'm far away on my vacation,
You stay in my binding imagination.

A little bit of Byron lies in me,
A brooding young man with morbid despair,
Whose moods switch so quick, like of the vast sea,
While I stand beside the rocks, winds through my hair.

A bit of Shelley flows inside my pen,
A burning rebel in my father's land,
Not understood or felt by common men,
Where ultimate ideals I do demand.

A lot of Keats sings and dances in me,
Summer airs, nightingales, everything old,
Escaping my pain on wings of poesy,
As he, my broken bard-brother has told.

I read and read and found myself in all,
And so did find myself through my heart's call.

Because the moon does shine with splendor bright,
The puffy clouds are painted silvery,
The weather's warm, and sometimes hot, the night
Embraced by trees and their shadows silently.

No sun is seen, I feel no breeze of summer,
Only waves of heat, bringing out the sweat,
No song of birds, nor songs of any hummer
Is heard, with ears the silence's only met.

I have to close the door, because I'm going
To sleep, but cannot close my dreamy eyes
And stop from glancing at the moon who's glowing
In smooth beauty, that lamp of nightly skies.

I thought summer was most pretty in sunbeams,
But no — also at times of silent dreams.

Had your thoughts been more pure like your skin,
As bright as the diamonds on your soft wrist,
Had you been more away from fault and sin,
Or giving each action a cunning twist,

And had you been more noble than fine art,
More modest like a meditating monk,
From desirous fame and names apart,
And not on an uncontrollable lust drunk,

Your style would have been much more prettier,
And pleasing to look at – without a doubt –
Both the inside and the exterior,
People would not see you as a washout.

But you'll not change until you see that rules
Shape prettiness right, like forms do to jewels.