After Winter

Wild grasses in an unmatched onslaught have burst out from the furrows of cracked earth. Here and there in the potholes of the street the night's leftover rainwater has made shallow, trembling pools; little basins that generously have taken in the white cloud and the blue sky. The sound of a rubber ball comes playful from one foot to the other in the uproar of playing laughter. The sound of a hand comes that has crumpled the black news on cheap paper and wipes the livid dust from the windows of the year with crumpled sheets of "newspaper" from the windows. And the sound of the breathing of Farvardin air comes or all the murmurs of the voices of spring pass over the black shawl on my head slip down my neck hang upon my breast with thousands of kisses. Under the black, black, black shawl with the sun of Nowruz as if your lips, my love, after the cold winter...