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 deeply.
If the soul is loved to the depths,
The heart will become a golden block,
Only the Tegeran moon
Will not warm the song.
I don't know how I can live my life:
Shall I burn in the sweet caresses of the sweet Shagi
Or shall I anxiously grieve
Over the distant memory of a brave song?
Everything has its own pace:
Something is pleasant for the ear, something - for the eye,
If a purse makes a bad song,
Then, he's not at all from Shiraz.
For these songs speak about me
Among the people:
He would have sung more tenderly and wonderful
But he was ruined by a pair of swans.