If only Parvin, Forough, and Akhavan had remained
If only Nima of the North had a thousand-year life in this world
If only Sohrab Sepehri spent all his days picking the blossoms of mysticism
If only I had studied the hidden truths in their school of thought
If only the delicate thoughts of the Nimas
The proud Persian heart of the Saleses
And the meadow and waterside that Sohrab cast his beautiful vision upon
Were alive — like the graceful height of a white poplar tree
If only one night, Sohrab warmly clasped my hands in delight
If only his partridge-feathered touch had wiped away my tears
If only Nima washed his heart clean
If only Parvin would visit for a moment — or I could see in a dream her face of divine insight
If only, in one night of her holy prayers, my own heart would open up
If only dear Sohrab could bloom again in this world — like Rawi
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