«The blue motherland Firdusi, / You cannot, have cooled down in your memory, / Forget about the tender Urus / And about the eyes, thoughtfully simple, / The blue motherland Firdusi. You are good, Persia, I know, / The roses like lanterns, are burning / And again I'm old about the far lan...»
«To be a poet — it means as / If one does not bestow the truth of life, / To cut oneself on the tender skin, / With blood's feelings to cherish another's soul. To be a poet — it means losing the freedom, / To make it more known to you, / The nightingale sings -- it doesn't hurt him, /...»
«My darling's hands — a pair of swans — / Are diving in the gold of my hair. / Everybody, the people of this world / Sing the song of love, endlessly. So did I, sometime, long ago / And now I'm singing the same, again, / That is why my words are steeped in tenderness / Are breathing ...»
«"Why is the moon shining so dimly / on the gardens and walls of Horossan? / As if I'm walking the Russian plain / Under the rustling mantle of the fog", — I asked that dear Lala, / Of the silent cypress at night, / But my host didn't whisper a word, / But rather raised their proud hea...»