The season of living alone I have forbidden nights Here are some dreams But the interpreter is dead Sitting at the central gate of the "Goal Bagh" There is a watchman-like boredom. That will never end I have a village blacksmith Which made for the farmers Make new cracks on the crust But one night the crops were destroyed I have a sad sadness In the days of Quarantina An angel ... under my pillow ... Forgot about it I have everything Except for the rare ones, That i'll steal From a coffin maker Or the old one who always smokes expensive cigarettes ...