Our state is not well, yet we swallow our grief,
not little – no! Day by day, we swallow it bit by bit.

I ask for water, they give me only mirages,
I give love, and they return torment to me.

I do not know in what sleep I fell,
why did you not wake me, O Sun?

A dagger struck my ailing heart,
I was innocent – yet they executed me.

A coward’s blade pierced my back,
under the weight of treachery, it broke apart.

They bound the stone, but set the dog free,
overnight injustice turned into justice.

In the end, love struck at my roots,
it struck as well at the roots of my thought.

If this is love, then I become a heretic,
if this is goodness, then I choose to be bad.

Enough, O heart, enough of turmoil!
I am no believer anymore – enough of false piety!

Among the people, I became lost,
in the end, I became stained as they are.

(A Poem of Pain)

From now on, I will make peace with loneliness,
and reveal whatever was hidden in my heart.

I am not like those with a dagger in hand,
I am an idol-worshiper – an idol-worshiper, yes, I worship idols!

Idol-worship – that is our craft,
drunken eyes are the gift of our marketplace.

Pain drips down when I moisten my lips,
my fortune is cursed, and I believe it.

I, who wrestled with the sea,
why have I lost the way to the sea?

Do not lock the door of sorrow on my cell!
I am already gullible – do not deceive me!

I do not say: “Silence me not,”
I do not say: “Forget me not.”

I do not say: “Be my companion,”
I do not say: “Be my comforter.”

I say nothing more – enough of speaking,
for speaking without listening is enough!

May your days be sweet, be joyful,
at least for one night, be a “Farhad” too.

Ah! In your city there was no true friend,
no one bought my tales.

Alas! The custom of your city was tyranny,
your city built upon our blood.

From your walls drips blood,
the blood of me, of Farhad, of Majnun.

Weary am I of your gloomy tales,
weary of your poisoned sympathy.

So many daggers, yet no heart bled,
so many Laylas, yet no Majnun appeared.

The sky emptied of your cries,
Bisotun longs for your Farhad.

If rock-carving is not my craft,
still my chisel bears the scent of Farhad.

Love was far from me, and my legs were lame,
its price too high, my hands too poor.

(A Poem of Pain and Longing.)

If I did not go, my legs were weary,
if the chisel fell, my hands were bound.

Did anyone open my hand? No!
Did anyone think of our poverty? No!

Did anyone ask of our state? No!
Did anyone see our sorrow? No!

No one shed a tear for us,
everyone who was with us fled from us.

For some days now, my state has been visible,
you can ask it of anyone.

Sometimes I gaze fixedly at the ground,
sometimes I turn to Hafez for an omen.

Hafez the madman took my fate,
a ghazal came that seized my soul:

“We expected loyalty from friends,
but it was a mistake, what we thought

(A Poem of Pain and Longing.)