You were the spring of all my seasons

Bijan Elahi

And you were the spring of all my seasons,

the spring of all the notebooks

in which I wrote nothing.

Let me answer,

as I grieve with tenderness.

Let us leave all that is crystal (made of tears)

to the season before.

Let me love you with the colors of your body:

bare yourself beneath the waterfalls of the sun,

even cast your ring

into the sound of those

who wish to make us believe

in something other than what is.

I will love you

with the color of quince blossoms,

with the hues of oak.

The deep purple belongs to the irises.