Moon behind clouds

“Our garden was on the shadowy side of wisdom
Our garden was the knotting place of feeling and foliage,
Our garden was in the focal point of encounter of eye, cage and mirror.
Our garden was perhaps an arc of green circle of bliss.
I’d chew the unripe fruit of god in sleep, in those days.
I’d drink water non-philosophically;
I’d pick berries unknowledgeably.
As soon as a pomegranate burst, hand was a fountain of desire.
As soon as a Cello sang, breast burnt with a longing to hear.
Every now and then, loneliness stuck its face against the window.
Passion could arrive, folding its arms around the feeling,
Thoughts would play.
Life was something like the pouring of Feast of Spring,
like a plane tree full of starlings.
In those days, life was like a row of light and dolls,
Like an arm of freedom.
In those days, life was like a pond of music.”

Sohrab Sepehri, The Sound of Water’s Footsteps
1346–1400 a.h. / 1928–1980 a.d.