Charbagh was full of stories. stories that no one believed except Amali; If it reached the ears of a stranger, he would say that the days of these stories and anecdotes have passed, no one dared to tell them anymore, and the stories were locked in th ...
Charbagh was full of stories. stories that no one believed except Amali; If it reached the ears of a stranger, he would say that the days of these stories and anecdotes have passed, no one dared to tell them anymore, and the stories were locked in the chests of old men and old women whose grandchildren no longer understood their language. People saw the four gardens and passed by them, but no one knew why there were twelve or thirteen sapidar trees on the other side of the vineyards that no crow dared to build a nest on their branches. Every time I saw Chaharbagh, the sapidars brought their branches and dragged me towards the small dilapidated house next to the spring, as if someone was waiting for me to tell me a story. I never saw anyone in that house, but every time I heard the sound of cheering, clapping, and clapping, I fantasized that maybe there was a wedding somewhere around there. This novel is the story of my forgetfulness and that of all the villagers who once saw the trees of the four gardens and counted them.
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