The Memory of the Soul's Sorrow in Semnan

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The face of that evening was silent, as silent as her heart and the path where she waited for footsteps that never came. Everything was ash, staining the coverings, the very thing that had shaped her longing, but she could no longer say: I'm finished. How could she not? How had her poetic soul slipped from hers? And she remained empty without them, enveloped in burning sorrow and regret. Since she knew not when, she had not inscribed a single le…