Yalda, this beautiful and graceful long-haired Iran, is the legacy of our ancestors.

Abdollah Abdi - Abdi Media

A monument that has reached us from the heart of distant nights, from the fire and ashes of history.

Although our Iranian lady is bleeding from hearts, although her stature has been bent under the burden of the suffering of the era and her hair has been disturbed by the bitter wind of time, we, the children of Iran, will preserve this ancient tradition, whether in joy or in sorrow, like a trembling but unextinguishable candle for other children and future generations, and we will pass it on from heart to heart.

And we will tell them: Although we did not have the heart or brain to laugh these years, although the tables were ashamed and the smiles were wounded, although our hearts were full of hatred and our nights were full of bitter news; but we kept Yalda, like the last silent bastion.

We will tell them, on a night when the darkness had penetrated to the very bones of time, we gathered together, not for abundance, but for loyalty. Not for celebration, but for life and soul.

We will tell; on those nights when the sound of laughter was rare, we told stories so that we would not forget that we are still human. We took Hafez's fortune, not for the future, but for the continuation of the present. And the eunuch of Shiraz said in his trance:

What is wine and secret pleasure? What is baseless work?

We have fought on the line of the enemy, and whatever the wind may be.

Untie the knot from the heart and do not forget the sphere.

No engineer's mind has ever untied such a knot.

The revolution of the times is a wonderful circle that spins.

There are thousands of thousands of memories from this legend.

The cup is a condition of politeness, whose composition is

The bowl of the head of Jamshid and Bahman and Qobad.

Who knows where Kavus and Ki went.

Who knows that when the throne of Jam went to the wind.

I still see the longing of the sweet lips.

That the tulip is blowing from the blood of the sight of Farhad.

Unless the tulip knows the infidelity of the age.

That the cup will not foam until it is full.

Come, come, we will be ruined.

Unless we reach a treasure in this ruined city.

They will not allow me to travel. Travel

The breeze of the Musalla and the water of the Ruknabad

Don't drink a cup like Hafez except with the moan of the harp

That are tied to the silk of the happy heart

And by reading this fortune-telling of Hafez with the intention of his action, we will say, O beloved of the heart, O liver of our corners:

We, the sorrowful of history, have preserved Yalda until the day when you, in the light of blossoming, read this story and feel our tears and sorrow on your cheeks, not out of sorrow, but out of respect for Iran, the glorious lady. Of course, remember us well so that we are not dead to you.

Yalda will remain, because Iran will remain. And Iran will remain until its children, even with wet eyes, do not turn off the night lamp and are faithful to the light of the sunrise.