صد را در انتظارت
Sad Ra Dar Entezarat
“A Hundred Times in Waiting”
Lyrics
Lyrics updated · July 2026English 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
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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