🔸 “Arghavan (Redbud), what secret is it that each time spring arrives, it brings mourning to our hearts?”
In the hour of evening sorrow, and remembering the famous poem by Ebtahaj — that same Arghavan — I go to my library.
I do not allow the news of war into my room of books.
I flip through Hafez of Shiraz.
Ah, the last line of the omen:
“I said: Did you see how the time of joy came to an end?”
He said: Hush, Hafez, this sorrow too shall pass.”
I go to the kitchen. I brew some tea.
I whisper: “This sorrow too shall pass.”
I whisper: “My Arghavan is alone.”
Tomorrow, at last, the newspapers will be published.
Tomorrow, at last, the cinemas will reopen.
In the morning, you’ll wake up to the sound of the neighbor girl’s laughter.
Toward evening, you go to a café. You order a hot chocolate. Then, you go to the cinema.
A woman is sitting at the ticket booth. She asks, “How many are you?”
You say: “Give me a ticket for 90 million Iranians!”
You say: “Everyone is my guest!”
You invite them all — for two hours — to the darkest place in the world. You screen Cinema Paradiso for them, so they can taste the flavor of Pepsi and love.
Whoever tastes “sweetness” will no longer seek bitterness.
At the end of the night, everyone exits the cinema.
They go back to their homes.
Fathers take the hands of their little boys.
Girls, quietly, whisper to their mothers:
“A boy gave her a love letter on the way to school.”
The mother laughs. The daughter laughs.
The father notices the story, but pretends not to.
They go home.
It’s summer — and the promise of a trip to Lahijan delights the children.
And before sleeping, the fathers remember the war.
With tearful eyes, they open a book of Hafez for an omen:
“…I said: Did you see how the time of joy came to an end?
He said: Hush, Hafez, this sorrow too shall pass…”
