That book, it was a drop of my youth's ocean,
Without filter I recorded each emotion.
I may have left my older verses now,
But through my pen its flow is still in motion.

So many examples of charm you'll find,
So many questions in my youthful mind.
If faces were the essence of the soul,
Then pretty ones would always have been kind.

Just look, how easy do those small birds fly,
Over the things which make us always cry.
Flying away into the pathless spaces,
There is no grief or pain within the sky.

My words are sharp like stings of bees in spring,
But I will die lastly when I shall sting.
I have become a nightingale right now,
To only sooth the hearts, I now shall sing.

This artful mind of mine colors the white,
And lightens up the dark upon my page,
Hidden within my since-birth hueless sight,
Getting much more volume with every age.
This artful mind of mine colors the ears,
Which is a way right to the soul and heart,
Who's shielding it away from all the fears,
Making them strong, by manifested art.
This artful mind of mine is like a saint,
A flawless light of Truth, helping the poor,
By offering them a radiant paint,
Not touched by evils, but from within the core.
    Today I came to a truthful conclusion:
    This artful mind of mine, is my solution.

یعقوب و یوسف و زلیخا عاشق
ای جان, سر ا پا, همه دنیا عاشق
بی مهر و محبتی, دو عالم مردست
هر زنده، که مخلوق خدا را، عاشق

What's this desire for validity?
In every each step, each sigh, each look,
The rules of inner-peace, felicity,
Were never written down into the book.
Are my eyes deceiving me? I don't know,
Yet, many times I have trusted my insight,
Who makes me realize that it's all show,
Clearing the murky night like sinless moonlight.
My intentions are not to pierce the soul,
Unmask, expose this state, for that is rude,
I ask, and wonder much without control;
A sufferer knows sufferers quite good.
    Within each move you make I feel my pain,
    If you will lie, you'll make me look insane.