If a gardener were a prisoner of حسرت دیدار
wouldn't it have bloomed with flowers
once the seeds were sown with حسرت
grown in the zephyr of its sight?
wouldn't it have grown
with the longing of its دیدار
a moonbow of حسرت دیدار
over clouds of tears
felt affable, as if ineffable
a door with a lock
yet lost its key
a key only restored by its دیدار
alluring felt its sight
like a dream that could never be seen
yet felt deceitful as if it existed
its flawed, yet flawless دیدار
felt imperfect
full of eccentricities
those one longed to see
though one was stabbed a thousand times
until even pain felt delightful
distinguishing black and white
was never one's forte
coloured had its sight
everything in grey
yet its دیدار felt colourful
For its دیدار
one does not look with eyes
but from the heart
one always looks upon it
a sight, valuable
as if it could be kept
only in a museum
only within one's heart
For i like a rainbow
my life felt
yet in all its colours
its sight was the only thing i saw
perhaps… perhaps…
the sight i longed for
was قابل دیدار