It is like the sound of a song

At the door of winter

Forsaken without a fireplace

Sleeping on the pillow of sorrow

With no blankets

Except some paper cuttings

Which were a notebook for recording her appointments.

A stranger in our town

It is said he is a legend that passed through

Close to our houses

Like an ever travelling nightingale

Searching for hearts silent like the desert

Still fearing the night and dreams

Fearing the pulse of rain

As if he looks like a man

And in it the two are looking for each other

Travels are tired of both of them

And so are roads

And all the maps of the world.

And if the two pulses do not unite into one

And if the song of love rejects them

The journey of the lovers

Will continue to refuse the principle of  refusal.