Come, my beloved, let us walk among the ruins, for the snows have melted. Life stirs from its couch and swirls among the valleys and hills. Go with me and we will trace the footsteps of spring in the distant field. Come, let us go up to the hilltops and see the plains in waves of green around us.

For spring has unfolded the garment that the winter night had rolled up. The plum tree and the apple wear it, arrayed like brides on the Holy Night. The orchards have shaken off their slumber. Their branches embrace like crowds of lovers. The streams flow, dancing among the stones, echoing songs of joy. Flowers burst from the heart of nature like froth on the sea.

Come, let us drink the last raindrop tears from a narcissus cup and fill our souls with the songs of larks. Now is our time to breath deeply of the scent of spring breezes.

Let us sit by the stone where the violet is hidden, exchanging kisses of love.

SUMMER

Come, let us go to the field, for the days of the harvest have come. The crop is now grown, and the heat of the sun’s love for nature has ripened it. Come, before the birds forestall us and reap the fruits of our toil, or before a colony of ants takes our land. Come, let us reap the fruits of the soil, as the soul reaps the fruits of happiness grown from the seeds of fidelity—seeds planted by love in the depths of our two hearts. Let us fill storehouses with the products of the elements, even as life fills up the granaries of our emotions.

Come, my companion, let us lie upon the grass with heaven as our blanket. Let us lay our heads upon fresh hay and rest from the labor of the day, listening to the night whispers of the brook in the valley below.

AUTUMN

Let us go to the vineyard, my beloved, and press the grapes, filling the vats with juice as the soul is filled with the wisdom of generations. Let us gather the dried fruits and distill the blossoms, sacrificing the flower itself to preserve its lingering scent.

Let us return to the dwellings, for the leaves of the trees are now brown and scatter before the wind. The wind will make them a shroud for flowers dead in their longing for the summer that has forsaken them. Let us go, for the birds have journeyed toward the shore, carrying with them the friendliness of the meadows and leaving behind in desolation the jasmine and the myrtle to weep their last tears onto the ground.

Let us go back, for the brooks have ceased to flow. The springs have dried their tears of joy. The hills are stripped of their splendid robes. Come, my beloved, for nature is seduced by lethargy and says its evening farewells to wakefulness in the plaintive strains of Nihavand.

WINTER