By wellknown Pakistani Poet Hasan Rizvi
Sometimes, while spending the evening of Hajr,
Zulfay Yar used to decorate
Many ages have cooked their own
Kafs Kafs Tri fragrances
Neither those groups of Mah Jabins
nor those colorful dialects
They never win or lose those games of love
Those who were dreams of dreams.
They were illusions
Sardasht was not a single flower
that was beautified with tears
That was a moment of separation
for many years
He passed away in a moment
called Umarguzari1
There were those who were dearer than life
and remained unaware throughout their lives
This was the wish of my death
No, there was no question on my lips,
my heart was all bored
I stood at the door silently,
She was combing her hairs
