No one thinks of flowers

No one thinks of fishes

No one wishes

To believe that the garden is dying

That the garden's heart is swollen in the sun

That the garden's mind is softly, slowly

Emptying of green memories

And the garden's perception seems to be

An abstract thing rotten in the garden's solitude

Our house is lonely

Our house

Yawns

In anticipation of the rainfall of an unknown cloud

And our pond is empty

Inexperienced little stars

Fall to the ground from lofty trees

And from among the pale windows of fish houses

The sound of coughing can be heard at night

Our house is lonely.

'Lyrics by Forough Farrokhzad'