Mahmud Shabistari, A Fancied Dot
1317 | Tabriz
The past has flown away,
the coming month and year do not exist;
Ours only is the present’s tiny point.
Time is but a fancied dot ever moving on
which you have called a flowing river stream.
I am alone in a wide desert,
listening to the echo of strange noises.
Just Pillows 