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There is a red rose surviving
in Nishapur, decorating a tomb,
a slip of its hip was supplanted in
Boulge, but nobody dares to clip.
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Where these petals fall, perfume of
poetry scents our polluted air, not
till now, has flower extract been
translated into bouquets so fair
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Nishapur was where thorns injected
a redolence of plant fluid into ink,
permit me to scribe for you in Boulge,
quatrains of beauty, to your visible link.
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