Gar Zolfe Porayshanat

If your disheveled hair fell into the morning breeze's hand Every heart, wherever it might be, would fall into a trap of affliction

We have cast the ship of our patience into the sea of grief To the end of this storm, where will each plank fall?

After all, what harm would come to the king of kingdoms If one day he cast a glance at the state of a beggar?