Mahnaz Hamedanian

A few kilometers south of the magical beauty of Paris,
where the sound of traffic fades into the breath of the fields,
the sunflowers lower their faces to the ground,
unaware that in the city, the shadows still move and merge.

Le Tournesol drifts softly through the wind,
Nana Mouskouri’s voice, tender, timeless,
a memory that glows between the golden petals.

Here, beyond the city’s edge,
time slows, and everything becomes lighter.
Only a whisper remains,
the hum of a melody,
and a heart that still turns toward the sun.