The Garden I Could Never Fully Enter

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There is a garden from my childhood I never fully entered—Baaghe Ostaa Nasrollah—where fruit was sold under shade, water whispered from an ancient qanat, and the air smelled of mint and sun-warmed grapes. This memory, both vivid and veiled, returns to me in brushstrokes and verses.

The gate of memory—closed in winter, feathered with forgotten voices.
We came in summer, for grapes and silence. The rest belonged to him.
Where I stood with slippers on, longing to follow the stream.