They will fall to the ground...
Blossoms of the cherry tree...
Without you,
being in my womb...
ripening grain,
And the heady scent
of primrose flowers
from the moon...
and his dust...


به روی زمین خواهند ریخت...
شکوفه هايِ درختِ آلبالو...
بی آنکه تو،
در رَحِمَم باشي...
دانه اي،
در حالِ رسیدن...
و عطرِ خوشِ پامچال ها...
از ماه
و خاكِ او....

No locks of gold she would have worn
Nor fair in skin she would adorn

Every time she rose to speak
No ears to listen how they sleep

No one cared for the girl with naps
How she read you like a map

She had issues with her self
All of them on a dusty shelf

For everyone to judge and see
Her human flaws plauging thee

With no one there to help her plight
Her body began to dim in light

when she died in dark and cold
No one knew her depth in soul

Who was a fire that warmed the old
A golden angel you would behold