In the month of Esfand, the blossoms of yellow apples and plums
The taverns of Farvardin, the gardens of Mansouriye
And every year that there was no locust
There was hunger
Thirst, another name for freedom
Justice
I was drunk, who would take you home
Uncle Abbas, sitting by the river
To my health
Thinking of the martyred fish of Sak Ash
On the twenty-fourth of Dey, one thousand three hundred and fifty-seven
I was crying
I would hit my sixteen-year-old cup against the martyr’s glass and your brokenness
Uncle Abbas said, we all become martyrs
Marxists are free to express their beliefs
If only you could see the remaining pomegranates, Mammad
Deer are shot before they reach the spring
The apples cry on our Haft Sin table this year
Tomorrow, it will be autumn again
They close the roads