I set my imagination free
behind the mud-plastered hedges,

toward gardens
scented with bergamot,
where the song of the breeze,
like a plectrum,
is hung upon the strings of your hair.

Toward a branch
seated in contemplation of your eyelashes’ shadow,
and the air of longing
that from the chest of your gaze
strikes my heart with a clenched fist.

Nasrin Bastani