یاسین نیستانی

یاسین نیستانی / یاسین / Ya30n / Yacn / Yasin

The wind was a torrent of darkness among

the gusty trees,

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding—

Riding—riding—

The highwayman came riding

Up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin,

They fit him with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh;

And he rode with a jewelled twinkle