صد را در انتظارت

Sad Ra Dar Entezarat

A Hundred Times in Waiting

Ahmad ZahirThe MastersStudio · Dari

Lyrics

Lyrics updated · July 2026

English Translation

A hundred times in hope of you I ran to the door My feet gave out, and still I came headlong

When I heard the sound of a footstep from behind the door I searched for you, found you not, and ran once more

Night passed before my eyes, the world went dark My sun did not come — I ran in vain

A hundred times my head struck the door when your appointed hour Grew later and later — I only ran the faster

Perhaps your heart was burning — my eyes could not see clearly As I ran with parched lips and tear-wet eyes

In thought of speaking with you, I gave up sleep and food In hope of seeing your face, I ran from night to dawn

Transliteration

Sad rah dar intezarat, ta peshte dar dawedam Payam ze kar oftad, wa angah ba sar dawedam

Ta yak saday payee, ze an soye dar shanidam Jastam tura nadidam, bar degar dawedam

Shab raft peshe chashmam, donya seyah gardid, Khorshide man nayamad, man besamar dawedam

Sad rah saram ba dar khord, chon waqt waday tu Har qadar der tar shod, man tundo tar dawedam

Shayad dile tu mesokht, behtar nadid chashmam Choon ba labane khoshk wo chashman tar dawedam

Dar fekere goftgoyat, az khwab o khor gozashtam Dar intezar-e royat, shab ta sahar dawidam

متن اصلی

صد ره در انتظارت، تا پشت در دويدم پايم ز کار افتاد، و آنگه بسر دويدم

تا يک صدای پايی، ز آن سوی در شنيدم جستم ترا نديدم، بار دگر دويدم

شب رفت پيش چشمم، دنيا سياه گرديد خورشيد من نيامد، من بيثمر دويدم

صد ره سرم به در خورد، چون وقت وعده تو هر قدر دير تر شد، من تند تر دويدم

شايد دل تو ميسوخت بهتر نديد چشمم چون با لبان خشک و چشمان تر دويدم

در فکر گفتگویت، از خواب و خور گذشتم در انتظار رویت، شب تا سحر دویدم

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The hyperbolism of the ghazal — not once but a hundred times the speaker has waited. Counting as a form of devotion, waiting transformed from passive endurance into active proof of love.

About This Recording

A hundred times, not once — the ghazal loves this kind of counting, where cruelty endured over and over becomes proof of devotion rather than a reason to leave. Zahir's warmth softens it. In his delivery the hundred waitings sound less like punishment than like the texture of a life arranged around a single fact: that the beloved exists, and everything else falls into orbit around her.

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