Love, pure love, a love free from any type of accounting and profiteering, free from any type of impurity, is the main message of Moshiri's poems. He is a lover, a real lover; he was born as a lover, and lived as a lover, and lived as a lover and left as a lover and his name will remain among the true lovers forever. His love is not limited to a special beloved; his love is more exalted, more loftier and more immense to be confined.
His love is a universal one, covers all the people of the world, even more all-embracing. His love concludes all the word begins either alive or non living. He loves the season; he appreciates spring, summer, autumn and winter. He loves the pigeons and their flight, he loves the fields, the mountains the kavirs, the seas, the cascades; he loves rain, snow and hills.
Every one asks:
What exist in the vague murmuring of water?
What exists in the pleasant clamor of leaves?
What exists in the dances of the white cloud?
Over that lofty quiet blue?
Which immerse you in the depth of dream
When he talks of his fears and sorrows, none of this fears and sorrows are oersonal. He worries for the future of man, for the nature, for all the beings:
Bullet pierced the bosom of morning
Garden quivered sky too
The pleasant asleep of pigeons distorted
The hot lead poured in to their ******************s
The chatters of the drunken sparrows interrupted
The reflection of flower shrunk in the crystal water of spring
The hue of terror poured into the moments
The bloody feather hanged on the branches
Moshiri was the lover of life. It is a great loss for human beings, especially the patrons poetry that a poet with all these loves for life leaves the life too soon.
