You don’t hear my voice any more. You're all the dream,  going to be ambition.

Your appearance is all the times when I remember I'm alone.

And your beauty is the slept darkness of the Moon which is going to be cloudy.

Let's suppose to be the window; its cold winter will be opened to Moon one night.

And you don’t hear my voice anymore.

The windows of the town are all irony, not able to call.

                                                                                          My voice, Hadi Safaree 2001/3/18