Honest and silent cries
Who're both from truth and lies
Reveal without disguise
The stories of the eyes.

Those optics who are red,
Silver tears they have shed
And have carefully bled
The stories of the eyes.

As smoke fondles the lips,
Inhaled with gentle sips,
It gets exhaled and slips
The stories of the eyes.

Red mist covers the view
Of those jewels who're blue
Who show pitch-black nights through
The stories of the eyes.

Bubbles in the eyes hatch
And eyelashes can't catch
Streams, who (from her) detach
The stories of the eyes.

Tears roll down her rose-cheek,
Gushing forth like a creek.
And they can't stop. They leak,
The stories of the eyes.

As the streams of tears stop,
Night's veil and Dawn's breath swap,
They push, like a teardrop,
*The stories of the eyes.

A melancholic gaze
Upon my walks I have, born out of wanderlust,
Having thoughts and feelings 'bout dust
And Byron's ways,

The wind is in my raven hair,
    A poet is my heart,
Between hope and despair
I classify my written art.

Many women and wine out of still skulls
I am a stranger to,
But not to skills
Of natures who're romantic as a hue.

I'm in love again, with joy and woe again,
To where it does go, I do not know again.

The tunes and glitters, of the night and of love,
With bitter-sweetness do come and go again.

It breezes with love so quietly to me,
Towards this lovely wind, I must blow again.

These fancies of love, the admiring eyes,
To me it breezed so unknown and slow again.

O Mâhî, the lady of glitters got you!
This, it looks like a romantic show again.

Not much have I narrated this story,
Who's about glee and about worry.

I became quiet after seeing her,
This bluesy woe; o soul, this does vary.

We are the nightingales of this garden,
We are the poets, wielding poetry.

This crafted work is veiling prejudice,
I don't see the hands crafting embroidery.

Sometimes a love, sometimes a description,
Mâhî's drawing a gleamy gallery.

The rosy hues become smoother after years,
And are still blossoming with juvenile airs.

Symphonies of the King of Pop are still played,
To this day on, now it even finely fares.

Spotting that girl in the streets at times of night,
The young fellow, a gift with his hand he shares.

The friends were made with a lot of love and glee,
What are the outcomes of those pretty affairs.

These lines adorned with rhymes are my merchandise,
Presented nicely at gleaming city squares.

He, the singer, tells a tale about a girl;
Mysterious airs and mysterious hairs.

Mâhî, you have narrated this many times,
Everyone knows perhaps your likes and your cares.

Your languid eyes are shaped like an almond,
Your complexion is like the moon so pale,
Who could not to my figure be likened,
Who's between people and people a veil.
And your speech is in a different tongue,
Veiling the layers of our deep voices,
Making us deaf to hear our true song,
Freezing us in our ignorant choices.
But don't you smell, hear, feel and see like me?
Don't you become saddened and cry like me?
Don't you strive to become happy like me?
Don't you become tired and sigh like me?
  No matter which label, black, white, Asian;
  We all emerge from the same Origin.

Caress and then betray is not my way of love,
To let them wait and stay is not my way of love.

Although sometimes it's true, always seeing this bonding
As just a fleeting play is not my way of love.

Secrets of me and her stay a secret forever,
Putting that on display is not my way of love.

Lies and vile corruption accompanied by lust,
Leading her to that way is not my way of love.

My truth will stay I learned, even if she's beautiful,
With her to go astray is not my way of love.

I am no butterfly, although my life is one,
To love for just a day is not my way of love.

I have no love right now, only a broken heart,
But to wait and decay is not my way of love.

I saw a girl who's winsome face was bright,
    Next to me a fleeting presence like smoke,
Her eyes were dreamy like a balmy night,
    She smiled and laughed, although there was no joke.
She was so beautiful, but did not know;
    I saw the empty sadness in her eyes,
Like a wind towards the stars she did blow,
    Forever high, like missing butterflies.
So sad, but still nothing could beat her charms,
    A silliness – from fear she was not fleeing –
She looked me in the eyes, opened her arms,
    And suddenly embraced my broken being.
Three seconds warm, and she let go – apart –
Yet it lasted much longer in my heart.

My desire for you is gone,
Like the blazing red sun at dawn.
It was there for a fleeting moment,
But now sadly everything’s done.

In September, I've reached my grounds,
And dug up the jewels and gems
Who were all for the sake of Love,
And were all disguised as poems.

In September, I've met a soul,
Who is far away from my sigh,
Who showed myself with smiles and wits
And refrained me from being shy.

But even after *September,
I still do remember
Every lesson I have learned there,
While holding them with grateful care.

The breezing leaves are gone, the weather's cold,
The summer and spring went to other places,
The lovely sun through clouds shines not as gold,
No more a comely sheen upon the faces.
The nightingale stops with praising the rose,
The parrot stops repeating other songs,
The smiling buds are coming to a close,
Talking about the colds does fill the tongues.
And so, I only see of you a lonely stem,
Who cannot be adorned to shine again
With a priceless gift, ring or precious gem,
As in past days, to make you beauty reign.
  The fading of beauty, what you concealed,
  Our nature tells about, the air revealed.

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.

The moon's like a 'C', the strips like a 'I'
The bridge's like a 'T', the ways like a 'Y'.

Even when I am near, I am away,
In my whole life I will chase you in age,
This chase will not improve nor will delay,
Making us strangers in this world, this stage.

I was so sad, a stagnant mood of dread,
And advice from others could only tire.
A state between living and being dead,
Was at those moments by only desire.
It was a time of brooding and much thought,
So that my feelings were clouded like rays,
No matter what I did – I just could not
Feel like myself, like in older days.
Let the spring of the past come back again;
The tulip's blooming, and her stem is steady,
Along the breeze of dawn, its healthy rain –
But most importantly, my heart is ready.
    I realized, that in the very end,
    My holy patience was my only friend.

I've used the gifts of eyes too much,
On delights who can't feel my touch,
Nor can feel my sighs, nor my voice,
Nor my sorrow, and nor my joys.

I've wasted too much hand movements,
Too much ink, too much days and nights
Writing their names on blank pages,
While I did not expect replies.

Autumn: falling of rains,
The cries of flocks of cranes
And many more delights,
Who're found in days and nights.

Empty are the orchards,
With the absence of birds,
Accompanied by cold
And the fruits who were sold.

For months I have waited,
In times I have hated,
Like the haze of summer
Who's flare made me number.

And now it's back again,
With silver drops of rain,
And yellow leaves who whirl
In a shape of a curl.

O wind, take this leaf and bring it to her,
See the lovely rhymes and sing it to her.

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.

All her actions
Do jump to life,
Like chaos that
Creates the stars.

In an impulse
She quickly speaks!
From right to left,
From left to right.

And then lights up
The gray sections
Of this dark, dull
And dusty place.

And there she goes
With her star-speech! (again!)
And gone away
Is the subject! (again!)

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.

The reason why the luminous moon glows,
Is because of kisses who the sun blows.

An ecstatic joy is like a sweet breeze:
Suddenly it comes and suddenly goes.

When you have nothing to tell a stranger,
Mention stars; of their beauty each eye knows.

O ignorant one! You do much good deeds,
A cure on sad hearts your sweet smile bestows.

While the enemy shoots at his brothers,
Poor Mâhî seems to adore their arrows.

O beauty,
O sun!
Please, don't look at my appearance,
But look inside my soul and heart,
For there is more to see
Here than outside.

O beauty,
O moon!
How can I see and find
The inside of your skin if distance
Is the main chain who keeps me
Away from you?

O beauty,
O star!
I would like to love your grace,
But stars are far away,
Thus meeting is not an option
For me, for you.

These lustrous places of pleasure and shine,
Are awaiting the arrival of me,
And I want to capture them with my eyes,
To learn and enjoy from their lit beauty.

So, all these fancy paints of nights,
Where do they end up at I wonder?
Down the sink and away from lights,
Leaving the paint and painter lonely.

De postbode komt
met een tas vol brieven
maar geeft maar een brief.

I've come across a broken lady once
Who said: ''I do not need men anymore,
Who will desert me after a short month,
Because I have other things to adore:

My bright diamonds! look how they shine with pride,
A thousand mirrors lie within their being!
Look how it does never deceive or hide,
Let this be the last thing I will be seeing.

I know! I know surely they will not hurt me,
Hitting me with violent words always cold,
And I know too that they'll never desert me,
Throw me away like leafs when sick and old.''

I said: ''O lady; diamonds will not last,
They'll leave you too like men of your sad past.''

A beach – a sea – a breeze – a night,
My mind — my heart – feelings – and mood,
Lit up by golden lamppost light,
Alone, while I do hope and brood.
My hope's from beauty, and from
Darkness is all the brooding, here
Making me both alive and numb,
Between a joy, between some fear.
But oh, the wave did hit my feet!
A coldness embraces my skin,
(My socks all wet), it did retreat,
Back to the sea – where have I been?
    Both hope and brooding vibes did leave,
    To be mindful, I now achieve.

Lit-cities are with lit-nights decorated,
And lit-nights are with lit-brights decorated.

Monster movies making a rampaging mess,
Full and filled with power and fights decorated.

Pretty memory lane is up my alley,
Nicely with bright neon-lights decorated.

The rosy pictures who're posted online are
With eyes, with glows and delights decorated.

The glittering billows of dusty smoke spreads
The haze, and are with sprites decorated.

Colors of eyes will never change,
But only what they can perceive,
That ranges from normal to strange,
From happiness to downward grief.

A gleamy shell of the ocean,
She is at day and the night.

The night's again on youthful minds,
As sunlight is upon the day,
Joining around with different kinds,
Making the world go round and play.
They revel much at sprightly nights,
With golden cups in silver hands,
Dancing as dazzling diamonds bright,
With tongues who no one understands.
Free is the joy who is held there,
As swirling leaves do fall on grounds,
Without a woe, without a care,
Yet they do make a lot of sounds.
  After night, when at last awake,
  They're welcomed by the one: headache.

While praying my head meets the ground,
Merging my mind with Earth's still sound.

Glitters on the bags at night do shimmer,
While the eyes with tiredness do glimmer.

Dreams come through.

Brevity, a long word yet it's passing meaning's
A sigh like beauty itself, how saddening,
Like the song who the small nightingale sings,
So neutral, knowing not what is happening.

We live under the same blue sky,
Yet we do live away so far
According to the worldly eye,
You, who or wherever you are.

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.

He is a soul who doesn't know the world,
    Yet sees with his own two eyes its rules,
While his body is by his sadness curled,
    Counting his tears, who look like dewy jewels.
The crazy wind goes through his glossy hair,
    And its sword does almost strike his pale throat,
He's in a twisted state beyond compare,
    In his shaking hands the fine poems he wrote.
Viewing the Mystic's path, sometimes the frame
    Of life appears, yet all it secrets are
Still far away from him, he knows each name
    Of saint and poet, but still is far, too far.
Will the meaning of his life come true?
That brooding poet, he sometimes has a clue.

There is no thorn-lacking rose in this world,
Who does not inflict sorrows in this world.

I can grasp the moon between my fingers,
Yet can't grasp her from close in this world.

The desired past can only be found,
In memories and echoes in this world.

Each rose petal gets blown around slowly,
At each place where the wind blows in this world.

Gihon, quit making the reader so sad,
There are already much woes in this world!

There, the orange and shining sun,
Does shimmer on the sea,
Returning till the breezing dawn,
So things become nightly.

The streets and sights of the city,
Welcomed by nightly wind,
Become more slowly more pretty,
With neon light who's signed.

It feels empty and cold without fire,
Who is fueled by the looks and desire.

Each hanging tree and every golden-leave,
Are the views who make my soul inspire.

My Tribe of Relish has no renegades,
Once blessed and cursed: no one can retire.

The Pearl of Wisdom lies in my sad hand,
Yet that's the gem I seek to acquire.

That which is silent like a sleeper, yet
Loud like dreams, Ruyâ'î does admire.

Aflame and burned, the world's so mad
With many things, while you're so glad
With little things of mighty grace,
So innocent, of nights and days.

Late at night this crowded city
Is filled with so many lovers,
Who are like the very players,
In this unmentioned love story.

De eerste plek van mijn suikerfeestgebed!
Je was al oud, maar nooit een stuk antiek,
Je had ook nooit een mooie minaret,
Maar toch een moskee, vanbinnen klassiek.

Nu loop ik langs jou stenen, met gedachten
Die steeds proberen te herinneren
*** het nou was; wat mensen hier brachten,
Wat was het wat ik deed al die keren?

O gebouw van oudsher, nu ben je onbekend,
Een oude plaats alleen van nostalgie,
Door nieuwelingen word je niet gekend,
En nu een stukje in de poëzie.

Eerst kleine handjes, kleine gebeden,
Nu een jongeman, kijkend naar het verleden.

In deze druppel
die hangt aan een druivenblad
is zo veel te zien.

So many kinds of colors here,
Upon the signs and breezing hair,
In cities 'round the nightly world,
Presenting bright the midnight air.

Characters on the signs, pretty,
Characters in the bright city
Do shine so sprightly for the world,
With charm, with joy, with love and glee.

Who talks about the sun at night,
When there is shining fun at night?

Late I hear the sound of rain,
While having a thought in mind,
About the olden moments,
Who with charms look nice and kind.

To seek for knowledge as far as China,
The Caliph sent four scholars to Beijing.
When the four men returned back to Mecca,
Both had an other way of narrating:
One said: 'It was filled with pretty women!
I did lower my gaze not to get loose! '
Only complaints came from one gentlemen:
'By God! In the mosque thieves did steal my shoes! '
Another man said: 'It was filled with food!
It was hard to leave the dinner table! '
The last man said: 'It was beyond good;
It was filled with saints and righteous people.'
  Where you go to, wherever that may be,
  Whatever you desire, that you'll see.