Death has colored eyes

September is returning, and you're not here to welcome it. Longing, Susan... I didn't know longing was a deadly disease. All the wounds within me can be mended with the stitches of forgetfulness, except for losing you. This wound won't stop widening whenever I remember that I'll live my life without you. My heart, Susan, is burning with longing for you, and this ink I fought with a long time ago, I wouldn't have returned to it if it weren't for you. Who will sing the song of your birth month when it returns soon? Did Fairuz know when she sang its yellow paper that September would return and you'll be far away like a sad cloud with a lonely moon? September's winter will make me cry, my happy moon. It will leave me alone in the darkness and cold, trying in vain to light candles. Searching in colored eyes for a trace of yours, Susan, has made me sick. Sometimes, I wish the bullet had chosen me, not you. I was the one who should have been killed. The bullet would have been the salvation from what I am living now, and I am now dead. September is coming back, but you're not here to welcome it. Oh, Sawsan, the longing... I didn't know that longing could be a deadly disease. All wounds in me can be healed with the stitches of forgetfulness, except for the wound caused by my loss of you. This wound only becomes deeper every time I remember that I'll have to live the rest of my life without you. My heart, oh Sawsan, years for you intensely. And this ink that I had been avoiding for a while, I wouldn't have returned to it if it weren't for you. Your birthday is coming soon, but who will heartedly sing your happy song this time? Did Fairuz know, when she sang “Yellow Leaves”, that September would come back, but you would be far, that it would come back with sad clouds and a lonely moon? September's winter will make me cry, my happy moon. It will leave me alone in the darkness and the cold, trying in vain to light the candle flames. I feel ill, oh Sawsan, as I'm searching in all colorful eyes for a trace of yours. Sometimes, I wish it was me, not you, who was chosen by that bullet. I should have been killed instead of you. The bullet would have been my salvation from this kind of life, for I have merely become one of those who are gone.