The love of what was made possible by the love – the poet Al-Buhtari

gram what was made possible of the gram,

and longing for the inspiring lover

I lived from the old age, in the morning,

by remembrance of you or refraining from blame

What full moon have you helped, unjustly,

I will go through the perfect night

but your luck faltered, day stay

You spend it coldly in my bones

it cost me all to care

with it, And you kept me busy with my mother

will be killed in the march, if we leave,

Ghaleel was sick in the place

The flames of your cheek hurt you, and you bleed

his beauties with a heart, in you, bloody

I forbid you to shed forbidden blood

with that sign, in a sacred month

Mohammed, O son of Abdullah, lola

We call you to the honorable esteemed

And the star has nothing but the length of a people,

in them you make you proud, or sublime

to you the house of the foreigners, where it is built,

and proud of the great satraps

He who does not bequeath will blame you in the dew

Exalted the honor for which you defend me

Your redemption is a blind genealogist,

of the nations, And the great moral

what are you up to, Except you came, sorry

seaweed, or towards the clouds

and how much darkness you have sat in,

and did not meet the sleeping people

I turn your hands crookedly,

Like a bowl of the spring in the mean feathers

slay me like darkness, lure lukewarm,

seduced him, dark dagger

advancing in the unleashed, he stretched out

and beat, He increased from the belt

You see his feet ascending in it

ascending lightning, in the dark clouds

And it is not good for you to give him this one,

saddle up, unbridled

I will do what you forbade, and better,

Virtue is nothing but perfection