nights like this, i put my head on a pillow, and let the ruminants of…let’s say (for now) an interesting past unfold, with attention to a brevity of details.
tonight, i began to whisper these lyrics of a song long lost to my ears -“به همان خانههای خام، “عشق پخته داشتیم به روی عشق خود، پا نمیگذشتیم
what i do? i whisper that song till i fall asleep. then i wait another night. for another relic of past, to haunt me in the most beautiful way.
[let me know if you need a translation of those lyrics.]
[correction: in a previous version of this post, I misquoted the lyrics, someone was nice enough to point that out]