O love
Loneliest love of all
How dark are these clouds
gathered by the sun
to watch the day
rise
As if that bird there could see itself only
by the aura of its course
As if those young leaves sighing with desire
were none but verdant margins
of imagination
As if
the purple flame
burning in the translucent memory of the panes
exists only by the pure prayer
of the lamp
Forough Farrokhzad
translated by Tatul Sonentz from the
French translation of Sylvie M. Miller
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