Empty Chairs between the Tombs

We will return one day to our neighborhood and drown in the warmth of our fulfilled dreams.

We will return no matter how much time passes and the distance between us increases.

O heart, do not fall on the path of our return to our home.

There are still empty chairs between the tombs of our dreams,

under the leafy cemetery trees, waiting for us once again.

The trees which are standing left and right on our way back to our neighborhood.

The lush cemetery trees that feed on the remains of our 
 past's sacrificed dreams.

Our dreams that were sacrificed for the sake of achieving the glory of others.

The glowing incandescent glory,

whose flames can only be ignited by an extracted fuel from other people's tears.

The tears that quench the trees of the graves of our deceased dreams.

The trees in which the nightingale commemorates, in his nightly songs,

our promises of meeting again.

Our old promises of meeting again, whose lines were written by the tears of our hope and longing.

The longing and nostalgia that have debilitated our hearts on our way back home.

O heart, get up and shake off your sadness,

for there are still empty chairs, between the tombs of the cemetery, for us under the lush shadows.

In the branches of those trees, nests the mournful nightingale,

who has immortalized our old promises in the verses of his poems that he reiterates over and over again.