Persian Visual Poems

Hafez’s poetry and Persian Miniatures come to life:



Love’s minstel has wonderful harmony and melody
Every song in his repertoire has a path to a place
May the world never be empty of the cry of lovers
Because it has a sweet and joyful voice
Although our dreg-draining Pir has neither gold nor force,
He has a sin-forgiving and fault-concealing God
My heart was honoured like this sugar-worshipping fly
Since he became Your desire, he has the splendor of the Huma
It is not far from justice, if the king asks around
about his neighbor the beggar
I showed my bloody tears to the physicians, they said:
“It’s love’s pain and the burning of the liver has the cure”
Avoid the tyranny of glances, for in Love’s way
 Each act has a recompense, and every deed, a reward
That idol of a Christian wine-seller said well:
“Enjoy the happiness on the face of a pure one”
O Great King!  Hafiz, a member of your court, recites the fatiha
And desires a prayer from your tongue


          مطرب عشق عجب ساز و نوایی دارد
 نقش هر نغمه که زد راه به جایی دارد
                    عالم از ناله عشاق مبادا خالی
که خوش آهنگ و فرح بخش صدايى دارد
     پیر دردی کش ما گر چه ندارد زر و زور
 خوش عطابخش و خطاپوش خدایی دارد
             محترم دار دلم کاین مگس قندپرست
 تا هواخواه تو شد فر همایی دارد
             از عدالت نبود دور گرش پرسد حال
 پادشاهی که به همسایه گدایی دارد
               اشک خونین بنمودم به طبیبان گفتند
 درد عشق است و جگرسوز دوایی دارد
         ستم از غمزه میاموز که در مذهب عشق
 هر عمل اجری و هر کرده جزایی دارد
           نغز گفت آن بت ترسابچه باده فروش
 شادی روی کسی خور که صفایی دارد
 خسروا حافظ درگاه نشین فاتحه خواند
 و از زبان تو تمنای دعایی دارد



The Peacock
Until your hair falls through the fingers of the breeze
My yearning heart lies torn apart with grief
 Black as sorcery, your magic eyes
Render this existence an illusion
 The dusky mole encircled by your curls
Is like the ink-drop falling in the curve of the jeem (ج)
 And wafting tresses in the perfect garden of your face,
Drop like a peacock falling into paradise
My soul searches for the comfort of a glance
Light as the dust arising from your path
Unlike the dust, this earthly body stumbles,
Falling at your threshold, falling fast
Your shadow falls across my frame
Like the breath of Jesus over withered bones
And those who turn to the Ka’aba as their sanctuary
Now with the knowledge of your lips, tumble at the tavern door
 O precious love, the suffering of your absence and lost Hafez
Fell and fused together with the ancient past



تا سر زلف تو در دست نسیم افتادست
دل سودازده از غصه دو نیم افتادست
چشم جادوی تو خود عین سواد سحر است
لیکن این هست که این نسخه سقیم افتادست
در خم زلف تو آن خال سیه دانی چیست
نقطه دوده که در حلقه جیم افتادست
زلف مشکین تو در گلشن فردوس عذار
چیست طاووس که در باغ نعیم افتادست
دل من در هوس روی تو ای مونس جان
خاک راهیست که در دست نسیم افتادست
همچو گرد این تن خاکی نتواند برخاست
از سر کوی تو زان رو که عظیم افتادست
سایه قد تو بر قالبم ای عیسی دم
عکس روحیست که بر عظم رمیم افتادست
آن که جز کعبه مقامش نبد از یاد لبت
بر در میکده دیدم که مقیم افتادست
حافظ گمشده را با غمت ای یار عزیز
اتحادیست که در عهد قدیم افتادست



The Fish
When my beloved offers the cup
Graven idols are crushed
 And those who gaze into that intoxicating eye
Cry out for the police
 I plunge into the ocean like a fish
Craving the beloved’s hook
 I fall pleading at those feet
In hope of a helping hand.
 Happy is the heart who like Hafez
Is drunk with the wine of pre-eternity


یارم چو قدح به دست گیرد
بازار بتان شکست گیرد
هر کس که بدید چشم او گفت
کو محتسبی که مست گیرد
در بحر فتاده‌ام چو ماهی
تا یار مرا به شست گیرد
در پاش فتاده‌ام به زاری
آیا بود آن که دست گیرد
خرم دل آن که همچو حافظ
جامی ز می الست گیرد



translations modified from Jila Peacock’s Ten Poems form Hafez. Sylph Editions, 2006

The Beauty in the Black Veil


This sublime fragment of a longer qasidah (ode) about a saint who falls madly in love with a beautiful maiden in a black veil (recalling the story of Shaykh San’an ) is sublimely performed in Mauritanian style by Dimi Mint Abba:


Tell the beauty in the black veil
What have you done to the pious worshipper?
He was rolling up his sleeves, getting ready for his prayers
when you stopped him at the door of the mosque
God is Greater! God is Greater!
O you who call to God with upraised hands
beseeching and begging for aid
If you seek his intercession tomorrow (on the Day of Judgement)
Tell the beauty in the black veil
For she has stolen from him his religion and certainty
and left him bewildered, without guidance
His prayers and fasts will return to you
Don’t kill him for the sake of the religion of Muhammad
His prayers and fasts will return to you
Don’t kill him, for the sake of Jesus and Ahmad
God, there is no god but God…





قل للمليحة في الخمار الأسود ماذا فعلت بناسك متعبد
قد كان شمر للصلاة ثيابه حتى وقفت له بباب المسجد
الله أكبر الله أكبر
يا داعيا لله مرفوع اليد متوسلا متضرعا للمنجد
يا طالبا منه الشفاعة في غد قل للمليحة في الخمار الأسود
فسلبت منه دينه ويقينه وتركته في حيرة لا يهتدي
ردي عليه صلاته وصيامه لا تقتليه بحق دين محمد
ردي عليه صلاته وصيامه لا تقتليه بحق عيسى وأحمد
الله لا اله الا الله …..
shaykh sanan


Arabic Poetry Videos

Some beautiful visual poems of lovely Arabic verse:




When the lion bares his teeth, do not
fancy that the lion shows to you a smile
I have slain the man that sought my heart’s blood many a time
 Riding a noble mare whose back none else may climb
Whose hind and fore-legs seem in galloping as one
 Nor hand nor foot requireth she to urge her on
 And O the days when I have swung my fine-edged sword
 Amidst a sea of death where wave was dashed on wave
 The desert knows me well, and the night, and mounted men
So do the sword and the spear, and the paper and the pen


إذا رَأيْتَ نُيُوبَ اللّيْثِ بارِزَةً فَلا تَظُنّنّ أنّ اللّيْثَ يَبْتَسِمُ

وَمُهْجَةٍ مُهْجَتي من هَمّ صَاحِبها أدرَكْتُهَا بجَوَادٍ ظَهْرُه حَرَمُ

رِجلاهُ في الرّكضِ رِجلٌ وَاليدانِ يَدٌ وَفِعْلُهُ مَا تُريدُ الكَفُّ وَالقَدَمُ

وَمُرْهَفٍ سرْتُ بينَ الجَحْفَلَينِ بهِ حتى ضرَبْتُ وَمَوْجُ المَوْتِ يَلْتَطِمُ

الخَيْلُ وَاللّيْلُ وَالبَيْداءُ تَعرِفُني وَالسّيفُ وَالرّمحُ والقرْطاسُ وَالقَلَمُ

Mahmoud Darwish



The Dice Player

Who am I to say to you
what I say to you?
I was not a stone polished by water
and became a face
nor was I a cane punctured by the wind
and became a flute…

I am a dice player,
Sometimes I win and sometimes I lose
I am like you
or slightly less…

I was born next to the well
next to the three lonely trees, lonely like the nuns
born without a celebration and without a midwife
I was named by chance
and belonged to a family by chance,
and inherited its features, traits,
and illnesses:

First – an imbalance in the arteries,
and high blood pressure
Second – shyness in addressing the mother,
the father, and the grandmother – the tree
Third – hoping to cure from flu
with a cup of hot chamomile
Fourth – laziness in talking about the gazelle and the lark
Fifth – boredom of winter nights
Sixth – a gross failure in singing …

I played no role in who I became
It was by chance that I became a male …
and by chance that I saw a pale moon
like a lemon, flirting with sleepless girls
I did not strive to find
a mole in the most secret places of my body!

I could have not existed
My father could have not
married my mother by chance
Or I could have been
like my sister who screamed then died
and did not realize that she was born for only one hour
and did not know her mother…

Or: like the eggs of the pigeons
smashed before the chicks saw the lights

It was by chance that I became
a survivor in bus accident
Where my school trip was delayed
because I forgot existence and its conditions
when I was reading a love story the night before,
I impersonated the role of the author,
and the role of the beloved – the victim
so I became the martyr of love in the novel
and the survivor in the road accident

I played no role in kidding with the sea,
but I was a reckless boy,
a fan of hanging around the attractiveness of water
calling me: Come to me!
nor did I play any role in surviving the sea
I was rescued by a human gull
who saw the waves pulling me and paralyzing my hands

I could have not been infected
by the fairies of the ancient hanging poetry
If the house gate was northerly
not overlooking the sea
If the army patrol did not see the village fire
baking the night
Had the fifteen martyrs re-built the barricades,
Had that field not fallen,
I could have become an olive tree
or a geography teacher
or an expert of the kingdom of ants
or a guardian of echo!

Who am I to say to you
what I say to you
at the door of the church
and I am but a throw of a dice
between a predator and a prey
I earned more awareness
not to be happy with my moonlit night
but to witness the massacre

I survived by chance:
I was smaller than a military target
and bigger than a bee wandering among the flowers of the fence
I feared for my siblings and my father
I feared for a time made of glass
I feared for my cat and rabbit
and for a magical moon,
above the high minaret of the mosque
I feared for the grapes of our vines
that suspend like the breasts of our dog …

Fear kept up with me and I continued with it
barefooted, forgetting my little memories
of what I wanted from tomorrow –
there is no time for tomorrow –

I walk / haste / run / go up / go down /
I scream / bark / howl / call / wail /
I go faster / slower / fall down / slow down / dry /
I walk / fly / see / do not see / stumble /
I become yellow / green / blue /
I split / break into tears /
I get thirsty / tired / hungry /
I fall down / get up / run / forget /
I see / do not see / remember / hear / comprehend /
I rave / hallucinate / mumble / scream /
I can not /
I groan / become insane / go astray /
I become less / more / fall down / go up / and drop /
I bleed / and I lose consciousness /


لاعب النرد

مَنْ أَنا لأقول لكمْ
ما أَقول لكمْ ؟
وأَنا لم أكُنْ حجراً صَقَلَتْهُ المياهُ
فأصبح وجهاً
ولا قَصَباً ثقَبتْهُ الرياحُ
فأصبح ناياً …

أَنا لاعب النَرْدِ ،
أَربح حيناً وأَخسر حيناً
أَنا مثلكمْ
أَو أَقلُّ قليلاً …
وُلدتُ إلى جانب البئرِ
والشجراتِ الثلاثِ الوحيدات كالراهباتْ
وُلدتُ بلا زَفّةٍ وبلا قابلةْ
وسُمِّيتُ باسمي مُصَادَفَةً
وانتميتُ إلى عائلةْ
مصادفَةً ،
ووَرِثْتُ ملامحها والصفاتْ
وأَمراضها :

أَولاً – خَلَلاً في شرايينها
وضغطَ دمٍ مرتفعْ
ثانياً – خجلاً في مخاطبة الأمِّ والأَبِ
والجدَّة – الشجرةْ
ثالثاً – أَملاً في الشفاء من الانفلونزا
بفنجان بابونج ٍ ساخن ٍ
رابعاً – كسلاً في الحديث عن الظبي والقُبَّرة
خامساً – مللاً في ليالي الشتاءْ
سادساً – فشلاً فادحاً في الغناءْ …

ليس لي أَيُّ دورٍ بما كنتُ
كانت مصادفةً أَن أكونْ
ذَكَراً …
ومصادفةً أَن أَرى قمراً
شاحباً مثل ليمونة يَتحرَّشُ بالساهرات
ولم أَجتهد
كي أَجدْ
شامةً في أَشدّ مواضع جسميَ سِرِّيةً !

كان يمكن أن لا أكونْ
كان يمكن أن لا يكون أَبي
قد تزوَّج أُمي مصادفةً
أَو أكونْ
مثل أُختي التي صرخت ثم ماتت
ولم تنتبه
إلى أَنها وُلدت ساعةً واحدةْ
ولم تعرف الوالدة ْ …
أَو : كَبَيْض حَمَامٍ تكسَّرَ
قبل انبلاج فِراخ الحمام من الكِلْسِ /

كانت مصادفة أَن أكون
أنا الحيّ في حادث الباصِ
حيث تأخَّرْتُ عن رحلتي المدرسيّة ْ
لأني نسيتُ الوجود وأَحواله
عندما كنت أَقرأ في الليل قصَّةَ حُبٍّ
تَقمَّصْتُ دور المؤلف فيها
ودورَ الحبيب – الضحيَّة ْ
فكنتُ شهيد الهوى في الروايةِ
والحيَّ في حادث السيرِ /

لا دور لي في المزاح مع البحرِ
لكنني وَلَدٌ طائشٌ
من هُواة التسكّع في جاذبيّة ماءٍ
ينادي : تعال إليّْ !
ولا دور لي في النجاة من البحرِ
أَنْقَذَني نورسٌ آدميٌّ
رأى الموج يصطادني ويشلُّ يديّْ

كان يمكن أَلاَّ أكون مُصاباً
بجنِّ المُعَلَّقة الجاهليّةِ
لو أَن بوَّابة الدار كانت شماليّةً
لا تطلُّ على البحرِ
لو أَن دوريّةَ الجيش لم تر نار القرى
تخبز الليلَ
لو أَن خمسة عشر شهيداً
أَعادوا بناء المتاريسِ
لو أَن ذاك المكان الزراعيَّ لم ينكسرْ
رُبَّما صرتُ زيتونةً
أو مُعَلِّم جغرافيا
أو خبيراً بمملكة النمل
أو حارساً للصدى !

مَنْ أنا لأقول لكم
ما أقول لكم
عند باب الكنيسةْ
ولستُ سوى رمية النرد
ما بين مُفْتَرِس ٍ وفريسةْ
ربحت مزيداً من الصحو
لا لأكون سعيداً بليلتيَ المقمرةْ
بل لكي أَشهد المجزرةْ

نجوتُ مصادفةً : كُنْتُ أَصغرَ من هَدَف عسكريّ
وأكبرَ من نحلة تتنقل بين زهور السياجْ
وخفتُ كثيراً على إخوتي وأَبي
وخفتُ على زَمَن ٍ من زجاجْ
وخفتُ على قطتي وعلى أَرنبي
وعلى قمر ساحر فوق مئذنة المسجد العاليةْ
وخفت على عِنَبِ الداليةْ
يتدلّى كأثداء كلبتنا …
ومشى الخوفُ بي ومشيت بهِ
حافياً ، ناسياً ذكرياتي الصغيرة عما أُريدُ
من الغد – لا وقت للغد –

أَمشي / أهرولُ / أركضُ / أصعدُ / أنزلُ / أصرخُ / أَنبحُ / أعوي / أنادي / أولولُ / أُسرعُ / أُبطئ / أهوي / أخفُّ / أجفُّ / أسيرُ / أطيرُ / أرى / لا أرى / أتعثَّرُ / أَصفرُّ / أخضرُّ / أزرقُّ / أنشقُّ / أجهشُ / أعطشُ / أتعبُ / أسغَبُ / أسقطُ / أنهضُ / أركضُ / أنسى / أرى / لا أرى / أتذكَّرُ / أَسمعُ / أُبصرُ / أهذي / أُهَلْوِس / أهمسُ / أصرخُ / لا أستطيع / أَئنُّ / أُجنّ / أَضلّ / أقلُّ / وأكثرُ / أسقط / أعلو / وأهبط / أُدْمَى / ويغمى عليّ

Those who believe are more intense in love…




Quran 2:165

وَمِنَ النَّاسِ مَن يَتَّخِذُ مِن دُونِ اللَّهِ أَندَادًا يُحِبُّونَهُمْ كَحُبِّ اللَّهِ ۖ وَالَّذِينَ آمَنُوا أَشَدُّ حُبًّا لِّلَّهِ ۗ وَلَوْ يَرَى الَّذِينَ ظَلَمُوا إِذْ يَرَوْنَ الْعَذَابَ أَنَّ الْقُوَّةَ لِلَّهِ جَمِيعًا وَأَنَّ اللَّهَ شَدِيدُ الْعَذَابِ



Among the people are some who take peers apart from God, loving them as if loving God. And those who believe are more intense in love for God. If only those who were unjust could see, they would see the punishment/sweetness: that all power is God’s and God is intense in punishment/sweetness.


Tafsir Maybudi 

They say that a man met a woman recognizer, and her beauty exercised its influence over his heart. He said, “’My all is busy with your all.’ O woman! I have lost myself in love for you.”

She said, “Why don’t you look at my sister, who is more beautiful and lovely than I?”

He said, “Where is your sister so that I may see her?”

She said, “Go, idler! Passion is not your work. If your claim to love me were true, you would not care about anyone else.”…

Shiblī said, “I learned Sufism from a dog that was sleeping at the door of a house. The owner came out and was driving the dog away, but the dog kept on coming back. I said to myself, ‘How base this dog is! He drives him away, and he keeps on coming back.’ The Exalted Lord brought that dog to speech and it said, ‘O Shaykh! Where should I go? He is my owner.’”

I will not leave the Friend at a hundred iniquities and cruelties.
Even if He increases them, I will not be troubled,
It is I who chose Him over everyone else;
if I complain about Him, I will have no excuse.



Tafsir Kashani

But the believers love God more ardently, than any other, because they only love God. Their love for Him is not confounded with love of others and is not subject to change. They love things through [their] love of God and for God and in the measure that they find in these [things] a divine aspect…

or [it means that] they love [God] more than they love their deities because they love things in themselves for themselves and so inevitably their love changes [for these things] when they themselves change the accidents of their souls upon fear of perdition and the harm that the soul brings upon them. Believers love God through their spirits and their hearts, nay, through God and for God. Their love [for Him] does not change because it is selfless. They expend their spirits and their souls for the sake of His countenance and His approval, abandoning all of their desires for His desire, loving His acts even when they conflict with their caprices, as one of them said: “I desire to connect with Him while He desires to abandon me, so I abandon what I desire for what He desires.”



Tafsir Anon.

Nothing but God is loved, nothing but God is worshipped— Your Lord has decreed that you worship none but Him (17:23)— indeed nothing but God is. However, some limit their love of God to a particular form or forms of His, an idol of sorts.

Those who love God in a limited form, in idols or “peers,” love a limited form, and thus their love is limited. Those who love God, Who is beyond all limitation (and is even beyond the limitation of being beyond limitation) love Him in each and every form, without limitation. Thus their love is unlimited, and more intense. He loves them and they love Him (5:54). They love Him with His love. Those who love the “idols” of a particular form or forms only love “as if with the Love of God” (كحبّ الله), but those who believe, who love of God is not limited by these forms, love God with His own unlimited love—God loves Himself through them.

Those who wrong themselves by limiting their love to a particular form or forms, if they could only see, would know the intense sweetness of love unlimited, and the severe punishment of limited love, especially when compared to sweetness of unlimited love. The pain of regret and envy is severe punishment.

Sheikh Lutfollah Mosque is standing on the eastern side of Naghsh-i Jahan Square, Isfahan. Construction of the mosque started in 1603 and was finished in 1619.

Ibn ‘Arabi 

Faṣṣ Harūn:

Have you seen him who has taken desire for his God? (45:23)

The greatest and most exalted locus of self-disclosure wherein He is worshipped is that of desire. Remember that He has said, Have you seen him who has taken his desire for his God? It is the greatest object of worship since nothing is worshipped except through it, and it is only worshipped by itself. Concerning this I say:

The truth of desire is that desire is the cause of desire
If not for desire in the heart, desire would not be worshipped

و حق الهوى إن الهوى سبب الهوى         لو لا الهوى في القلب ما عُبِدَ الهوى

Do you not see how perfect God’s knowledge of things is, how He perfects one who worships is desire and takes it has his divinity?… He sees this worshipper worshipping only his his desire, complying with its command to worship the individual whom he worships. Even his worship of God comes from his desire. If one did not have desire for the Divine—which is a will based on love—one would not worship God, nor would one prefer Him to another. Likewise, anyone who worships some form of the world and makes it a divinity only does so because of desire. The worshipper is forever under the influence of his desire. Now, he sees the objects of worship diversified amongst the worshippers, and each one who worships something, denies one who worships something else. One who has the least bit of awareness will be bewildered at the unanimity of desire, nay by the oneness of desire, for it is the same essence in every worshipper. God led him astray, that is, bewildered him, out of knowledge that every worshipper only worships his own desire, and only seeks to worship his desire whether it coincides with the prescribed command or not.

The perfect Knower is he who sees every object of worship as a locus of self-disclosure of the Real wherein to worship Him.


This is why a human being does not become totally annihilated and enraptured by love except in love for His Lord or for someone who is the locus of disclosure for his Lord [that is, another human being, created in God’s image].

The entities of the cosmos are all lovers because of Him, whatever the beloved may be, since all created things are the pedestals for the Real’s self-disclosure. Their love is fixed, they are loving, and He is the Loving. The whole situation is concealed between the Real and creation through creation and the Real. That is why God brought the name Forgiving along with the name Loving [in the verse He is the Forgiving, the Loving, Lord of the Throne, the Glorious (85:14-15)]. After all, Forgiving means literally ‘curtaining’. Thus it is said that [the famous Arab lover] Qays loved Layla, since Layla derives from the locus of disclosure. In the same way, Bishr loved Hind, Kuthayr loved ‘Azza, Ibn al-Durayj loved Lubna, Tawba loved al-Akhyaliyya, and Jamil loved Buthayna. But all these women were pedestals through which the Real disclosed Himself to them.

The beloved is a pedestal even if the lover is ignorant of the names of what he loves. A man can see a woman and love her, without knowing who she is, what her name is, who her relatives are, and where she lives. Love, by its very essence, requires that he seek out her name and her home so that he may attend to her and know her in the state of her absence through the name and the relationship. Thus he will ask about her if he lacks the witnessing of her.

So also is our love for God. We love Him in His loci of self-disclosure and within the specific name, which is Layla, Lubna, or whatever, but we do not recognize that the object is identical with the Real. So here we love the name but we do not recognize that it is identical with the Real. Thus we love the name and do not recognize the entity.

In the case of the created thing, you know the entity and you love. It may be that the name is not known. However, love refuses anything but making the beloved known. Among us are those who know God in this world, and among us are those who do not know Him until they die while loving some specific thing. Then they will come to understand, when the covering is lifted, that they had loved only God, but they had been veiled by the name of the created thing.


—Futūḥāt IV 260.12; Trans. William Chittick “The Divine Roots of Human Love

Ibn al-Fāriḑ

If I say:  I have for you, each and every love
He says: Lovelieness is mine and every beauty is in me


إنْ قُلْتُ:عِندي فيكَ كل صَبابة ٍ؛       قالَ:المَلاحة ُ لي، وكُلُّ الحُسْنِ في

Turn your gaze to the beauties of his face,
Where all beauty has been gathered
If all beauty were perfected into one form
on seeing him, it would exclaim [in wonder],
“There is no god but God, and God is greater.”


فأَدِرْ لِحَاظَكَ في محاسنِ وجْهه            تَلْقَى جميعَ الحُسْنِ فيه مُصَوَّرا
لو أنّ كُلّ الحُسْنِ يكمُلُ صُورةً                    ورآهُ كان مُهَلِّلاً ومُكَبِّر




Her mystery flows through everything
so everything inclines towards her


Whoever witnesses the secret of her beauty says
that it is everywhere, but its fullness is hidden
كل  شِي   سرُها   فيه     سَرَى        فلذا   يثنى   عليها   كل      شيْ
قال  مَن  أشهدَ   معنى   حُسنها        إِنه     منتشرُ     والكل     طيْ


She is adorned with each and every kind of beauty
And the people of passion are mad with love for her, wherever she appears.

تحلّت بأنواع الجمال بأسرها                  فهام بها أهل الهوى حيثُ حلّت




Everyone, sober or drunk, seeks the beloved.
Every place, be it mosque or synagogue, is the house of love
همه كس طالب يارند چه هشيار و چه مست
همه جا خانه عشق است چه مسجد چه كنشت
Various ways have those who love from (mere) passion
But I have a unique way,  in which I dwell alone.”

مذاهب شتى للمحبّين في الهوى            و لي مدهب فرد أعيش به وحدي

“Have you ever seen anything more lovely?”
I said, “is there anything else in existence?”




We all long for her loveliness
on earth, in skies above
There is no other beauty
and nothing else to love


I said, “all my love is yours
all loves and for all time.”
She said, “it’s only fitting since
every beauty is mine.”


Love loves Love
and Love is One
that is all there is below
and all there is above






More fado…






Lady of Nazareth, pray for me,
I am also a fisherman walking on the sea.
Off life’s dock in endless waves,
I’ve seen my little boat of dreams sinking perpetually.
My nets cast with confidence,
I hauled in only disappointments on a bad sea.
I lost the rudder of hope,
I can not row well.
Lady of Nazareth, pray for me.


Senhora da Nazaré, rogai por mim,
Também sou um pescador que anda no mar.
Ao largo da vida aproei nas vagas sem fim,
Vi o meu barquito de sonhos sempre a naufragar.
As minhas redes lancei com confiança,
Colhi só desilusões num mar ruim.
Perdi o leme da esperança,
Eu não sei remar assim.
Senhora da Nazaré, rogai por mim.







This flock of seagulls
Plays on each tide
That sea of still water
that feeds my faith

The boats will come
The boats will go
This whole pier is a world
This whole pier is a world
Which I don’t wat to flee

On the edge of the pier, whoever sees me already knows me
I am like this so you won’t miss me
It is the ocean from which you will come
on the edge of the pier, I have my destiny now
Always awaiting the time when
you will return one day

Some think I am not right
But I don’t really care
I am not coming here
So that you will come back faster

But it has given me this habit
That I have not lost till today
by the sea, I believe
by the sea, I believe
That I am closer to you



Esse bando de gaivotas
Brincando em cada maré
Esse mar de água parada
Que alimenta a minha fé

Os barcos que vão chegar
Os barcos que vão partir
Todo este cais é um mundo
Todo este cais é um mundo
Donde não quero fugir

À beira do cais, quem me vê já me conhece
Sou a tal que não se esquece
Que é do mar que tu virás
À beira do cais, tenho o meu destino agora
Estou sempre à espera da hora
Em que um dia voltarás

Há quem não ache acertado
Mas a mim, pouco me interessa
Que não é por vir aqui
Que tu voltas mais depressa

Mas ficou-me este costume
Que ainda hoje não perdi
Junto ao mar, eu acredito
Junto ao mar, eu acredito
Que estou mais perto de ti







The Broken Mirror


With his whip, the wind
Shatters the mirror of the lake.
In me more violent was
The damage

Because the wind in passing
Whispered your name
and after murmuring,
Left me.

So rapidly it passed
Not knowing it had destroyed me
The heartbreak in which I am
So fixed.

But its passing
In the glass of the lake
cutting my image
Enthralls me.

The crystal liquid
From my eyes without you,
In vain I asked the gale,

In order to break
The mirror, that mourned me
I remained with a tearless face

O my eyes without you, without you
More violent within me was
The wind.




Com o seu chicote, o vento
Quebra o espelho do lago.
Em mim foi mais violento
O estrago

Porque o vento ao passar
Murmurou o teu nome
Depois de o murmurar,

Tão rápido passou
Nem soube destruir-me
Nas magoas em que sou
Tão firme.

Mas a sua passagem
Em vidro recortava
No lago a minha imagem
De escrava.

Ò liquido cristal
Dos meus olhos sem ti,
Em vão um vendaval,

Para que se quebrasse
O espelho que me enluta
E me ficasse a face

Ai meus olhos sem ti sem ti
Em mim foi mais violento, o vento





Perhaps one day you will tell me what you want,
Perhaps you would not want to say it anyway,
Perhaps you will pass a hand through my hair,
Perhaps you may not think of me waiting for it.

Perhaps, this being so, it would be better,
Missing our meeting by a hair,
Perhaps you will not pamper me as I want,
Perhaps we don’t know our own hearts

But I’m not certain, that you could give responses.
I live only for repeated whispers,
Of deceit of the soul and hunger of the senses.
Perhaps it’s cruel, perhaps, perhaps.

If you give nothing, then, I will give you nothing
In this to-ing and fro-ing that we keep up,
And if our real longings are contrived,
Perhaps I might not know who you are but I know who I am.

If you give nothing, then, I will give you nothing
In this to-ing and fro-ing that we keep up,
And if our real longings are contrived,
Perhaps I might not know who you are but I know who I am.



Talvez digas um dia o que me queres
Talvez não queiras afinal dizê-lo
Talvez passes a mão no meu cabelo
Talvez eu pense em ti talvez me esperes

Talvez, sendo isto assim, fosse melhor
Falhar-se o nosso encontro por um triz
Talvez não me afagasses como eu quis
Talvez não nos soubéssemos de cor

Mas não sei bem, respostas não mas dês
Vivo só de murmúrios repetidos
De enganos de alma e fome dos sentidos
Talvez seja cruel, talvez, talvez

Se nada dás, porém, nada te dou
Neste vaivém que sempre nos sustenta
E se a própria saudade nos inventa
Não sei talvez quem és mas sei quem sou

Se nada dás, porém, nada te dou
Neste vaivém que sempre nos sustenta
E se a própria saudade nos inventa
Não sei talvez quem és mas sei quem sou




Damn sheet, obey
The hands that you do not deserve
The poet’s lies
All the blackness of the strokes
Describing a thousand hugs,
Stories of an open door

Only you know, white sheet
The art of making airtight
This sap the truth
He told me stories of love
This poor pretender
He made me believe that I longed for him

And, oh sheet surrendered to
the hand which in farewell
Says goodbye without parting
Will tell everyone
That he who pretends what he really feels is
My lost poet




Folha maldita, obedeces
Às mãos que nem tu mereces
Às mentiras do poeta
Toda a negrura dos traços
Descreveram mil abraços
Histórias de uma porta aberta

Só tu sabes, folha branca
A arte de tornar estanque
Essa seiva da verdade
Contou-me histórias de amor
Esse pobre fingidor
Fez-me crer que tem saudade

E tu, oh folha rendida
À mão que na despedida
Diz adeus sem ter partido
Vai dizer a toda a gente
Que finge o que deveras sente
O meu poeta perdido




Perhaps the same road
Is darker now,
Perhaps the sun in its lonesome wandering
Is chasing after the cold

In silence a heart
Awakens the empty house,
It doesn’t allow the illusion
To feign the pain it carried

Yet I insist upon showing
That love disappears
From a life that is waking up
From a life that is falling asleep

Perhaps the light doesn’t want
To say anything to the one who left
Perhaps in its own way
It’s saying goodbye to what it felt



Talvez o mesmo caminho
Seja agora mais sombrio,
Talvez por andar sozinho
Corre o sol atrás do frio.

Em silêncio um coração
Acorda a casa vazia,
Não permite a ilusão
Fingir a dor que trazia.

Porem insisto em mostrar
Que o amor desaparece
Numa vida a despertar
Noutra vida que adormece.

Talvez a lua não queira
Dizer nada a quem partiu
Talvez à sua maneira
Diga adeus ao que sentiu.



women in zigzagwell

Rumi-I am not wandering aimlessly




by Farah Aziz

No I am not roaming aimlessly
through the alleys and bazaar
I am a lover searching for his beloved

God have mercy on me
I am walking around troubled

I have done wrong and sinned
and am walking around wounded

I have drunk the wine of desire
and am walking around lovelorn

Though I may seem drunk
I am quite sober



نه من بيهوده گرد کوچه و بازار می گردم
مذاق عاشقی دارم پی ديدار ميگردم
خدايا رحم کن بر من پريشان وار می گردم
خطا کارم گناهکارم به حال زار می گردم
شراب شوق می نوشم به گرد يار می گردم
سخن مستانه می گويم ولی هوشيار می گردم