If you look at me, I become beautiful as if the grass were clothed in descending dew. When the river recedes, the tall reeds
By Goli Shani2 years ago in Poets
Dozens of lines of light rain It falls crookedly and weaves into thousands of rows Falling into the mountains Hanging up like the old painting in the private collection
When people are asleep and the snow starts to fly. Goose feather-like snowflakes fell on the dark city, the silent, constantly falling, loosely laying