The village’s mysterious dream lies upon the mud roofs.
The abandoned birds are lost at great heights, soaring above the clouds.
The blossoms are charred across the town.
Fear lingers heavily in the air.
A young boy whispers to himself, \"Where is Nowruz?\"
The flowers have faded.
The sky weeps.
A melancholic mother gazes at the wild daisies and murmurs, \"Where is Nowruz?\"
An elderly man, enveloped in the velvety embrace of yesteryear,
Suddenly, leaps up like a thunderclap, exclaiming, \"Where is Nowruz?\"
From a distance,
A joyful moment from the quiet fires of history glimmers.
Warmth,
Dewdrops,
Flowers—the open air—bit by bit,
Intertwined with the murmur of forbidden love
Spreads the splendour of the dawn of Nowruz.
Shahla Latifi
March 2025