I’ll raise a flag
from the lap of dawn
on the endless roof of loneliness,
so the graceful wind
may scatter freedom
across the silent valley.
The passion of life,
the passion of life—
burning inside.
I’ll play a cheer
on a broken instrument,
loving the quiet room
until the song begins
and flowers rise
from the debris of time.
Behold
the dance of the poplar leaves,
the dance of the poplar leaves.
The passion of life,
the passion of life—
still alive.
I’ll set a fire
with the burning sense of your eyes
in the bareness of my hands,
to place a bunch of stars
inside the empty frame of thought.
There is no time to hesitate
in the unfair war
between the stone and the mirror.
Even if doubt
lives in your eyes—
The passion of life,
the passion of life,
remains.
Arsalan — Tehran
02-06-1400
Translation: Aida Mohammadi
