این کوزه چو من عاشق زاری بوده است
در بند سر زلف نگاری بوده است

این دسته که بر گردن او می بینی
دستی است که بر گردن یاری بوده است
***

This jar has been a lover of restlessness like me
He has been fascinated by the beauty of a sweetheart's hair

This is the handle you see on the neck of the jar
It was the hand that was once wrapped around the neck of his love

***

They met at a bookstore, browsing the same shelf. He was looking for a thriller, she was looking for a romance. They exchanged smiles, and then phone numbers. They agreed to meet again, for coffee and conversation.

They liked each other, and soon they fell in love. They shared their dreams, their fears, their secrets. They supported each other, comforted each other, challenged each other. They laughed together, cried together, grew together.

They wanted to be together, but fate had other plans. He had to move away, for work and family. She had to stay behind, for school and health. They promised to keep in touch, to visit often, to wait for each other.

They tried to make it work, but distance took its toll. They missed each other, but also missed out on life. They grew apart, slowly and painfully. They fought, they lied, they cheated. They broke up, bitterly and regretfully.

They moved on, or so they thought. They met other people, tried other relationships. They pretended to be happy, but they were not. They still thought of each other, every day and every night. They still loved each other, but they did not know.

They never saw each other again, but they never forgot. They kept their memories, their photos, their letters. They hid their feelings, their regrets, their wishes. They lived their lives, but they did not live.

They died, alone and lonely. They left no trace, no legacy, no mark. They had a love story, but they never told it. They were one of the many untold love stories in the world.