He was tall, dark and handsome. She was cute as strawberries.
He used to look at her. She used to try looking the other way.
He knew she likes him. She knew he likes her.
He was cupid struck. She used to blush in her dreams.
Her brother was bad news. He tried his best to stop him.
Her brother made our mother bleed. She couldn’t stop him.
He had to do his duty. He had no other choice.
She had to see her brother die. She had no other choice.
He couldn’t forgive himself. He couldn’t forget her.
She couldn’t forgive him. She couldn’t forget him.
.
.
.
He used to carry his automatic rifle. She used to carry her basket full of apples.
He was a soldier. She was a girl from THE VALLEY.
Agar Firdaus bar rōy-e zamin ast,
hamin ast-o hamin ast-o hamin ast.
— Amir Khusrau
(If there is a paradise on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here)
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