My evenings bear the taste of boredom and bitterness,
like strong coffee, leaking from the pot of my thoughts.
I wish I could sit on a strong branch
like someone born and bred here, and old,
with enough distance to contemplate you.
I strive to paint my devotion to you in a picture,
now in a closer frame.

I can love you now in another way,
this way, like the winter in Kabul,
like the whirlwinds high in the air
or the windstorms in the month of Saur.

When I look at you now,
I love you even more,
this way, like dreams after sunrise
or a cup of tea from my mother’s hand.

I let the sun go down in your likeness.
When I fall in love with you,
I love you as much as freedom,
my love goes on farther than the flood-meadows of the north,
shines as bright as the day before
an early death.