Poetry about the sun

I never dreamed of becoming a star in the sky

Or the soul of the chosen companions of my fellow angels, I've never been isolated from the earth I was not familiar with the star.

I stand on the soil with a trowel, like a stem of the plant, and sunbathing and drinking water to live

Fertile fertile fertility, I'm standing on the soil to praise the stars to give me some bliss

I look from my throat, but I'm not a song, but a song. I'm not forever, but I do not wish to sing a song.

I'm not looking for a joy that's cleaner than simple silence

In a dew that is on a lily of the valley I'm on the wall of my hut that lives the memories. The people of the passerby:

The angry heart is a swirling pile of silent, dark-colored points over insolent insinuations

Every single stick that came to my feet was a star of a spit in my nave sitting on the river. So why do you wish the stars?

This song is my - a pleasant pleasant has not been more than this before.

Poem from "Forough Farrokhzad