Butterflies die to the sound of drums.
Drums were asleep that night
and butterflies fluttered the wind
combing hairs soaked in blood.
My last letter
a yellow butterfly bore off my pocket
butterflies that night
wept round my head
I saw my mom
I was not one
three hundred thousand soldiers slumbered in sleep,
I was but a dying moth in the desert that night.

Translation from Persian by Saeed Saeedpoor