If this heart of yours

ever cries out on at night,

If the wet jasmines ever drive you crazy,

If your eyes can ever find

the stars in the depth of daylight,

my heart's door is wide open

for you to walk into it.

My town of "dust of snow"

is now the home to tear-soaked stories

in faded ink.

Your little world of everyday murmurs,

the clinking of glasses—

Flickers of rage and delight wait at your door.

Visit my balcony, one day.

When a shower of rain will soak our hands,

And the jasmines will sing love,

You will fly into the sky.

In the crowd of thousand birds,

you vanish.

I can search for you

in the rain of pleasure and pain—

the clock ticks, chasing the butterfly's wings.

All of these started as a colorful story,

somehow ending as a pale and stretched novel.

I realized humans are happy when they dream,

when dreams color their minds and flutter their hearts.

But not every dream is colorful like our beginning—

not every dream is stained

like the agony of love.