Song of the Spring (2)

It is raining. After all the droughts as if my eyes had never for days and days been picking the thorns of the dry earth. As if on this soil my buds had never failed to bloom. It is raining. Soft and gentle it pours on my face. Each drop, each drop more beautiful than a pearl falls on my eyelid rolls down my throat. I drink the drops of the present moment with my dry tongue with my whole mouth and the new air moist and soft I swallow down to the depths of my dry bronchi. The days gone by are gone forever. A fresh, soft wave roams over the earth. It takes me in its arms. As if it were the air of thousands and thousands of gardens as if it were the air of thousands and thousands of meadows as if the air of thousands of fountains and thousands of sproutings from the cracks of thousands of rocks had risen in the earth and in me they roam. With thousands and thousands of dreams. With thousands of haft-sins spread on thousands of cloths in thousands of homes. As if this were Nowruz. This point of new beginning on the line of time on the path of the future. The point of my beginning with your presence in me in the pages of thousands of calendars. In the pages of thousands of calendars I came closer to you. Closer than yesterday. The immense wave of dream blossoms in me spread wide spread wide wholly it embraces all of me. The dried-up thorns have left my earth have left forever: you — my love — came near...