Saturday 27 October 2012

ﺷﻜﺴﺘﻮﻥ ﻛﻲ ﻛﻤﻲ

اي ﺳﺎﻛي ﺗﺠﻬي ﻛﻴﺎ ﻏﻢ, ﺗﺒﺮي ﻣﺴﺠﺪ ﻣﻴﻦ ﻣﻴﭙﺮﺳﺘﻮﻥ. ﻛﻲ ﻛﻤﻲ ﻧﻬﻴﻦ
ﺗﻴﺮا ﻛﺎﺭﻭﺑﺎﺭ ﻣﺪاﻡ ﺭﻫﻴﮕﺎ, ﺩﻧﻴﺎ ﻣﻴﻦ ﻣﺴﺘﻮﻥ ﻛﻲ ﻛﻤﻲ ﻧﻬﻴﻦ
ﺗﻴﺮﻱ ﻭﺣﺸﺖ ﻛﻲ ﻟﻴﻲ ﻭﻗﺖ ﻛﺴﻲ ﻫﻲ, ﺗﻮ ﺑﺲ ﺁﺏ ﺷﺮاﺏ ﺑﻬﺎﺗﻲ ﺟﺎ
ﺧﺎﻧﻪ ﺑﺪﻭﺵ ﻃﻠﺐ ﻫﻲ, ﺟﻮ ﺯﻧﺪﮔﻲ ﻣﻴﻦ ﺷﻜﺴﺘﻮﻥ ﻛﻲ ﻛﻤﻲ ﻧﻬﻴﻦ‎


back from vacation
I fly into mother's arms...
unwashed hill of clothes


Sunrays seep through bus windows,
loneliness turns to universal dissolution.


Office noise.
Whirring A/C.
Staring at the screen.

Bittersweet music

Bittersweet music —
Golden oriole on
Barren mango tree.


I haven't, in a long time,
bled myself.

I haven't scratched flesh,
watching in
dread fascination,
grotesque shapes
burning, searing, yearning,
dying and birthing themselves.

I haven't watched
the blots spread into
new territories of being
I dread to enter.

I haven't,
I haven't watched
meanings do their morbid dance,
preen in their vanity
or thrash about
or flail limply even.

I haven't stood by
to watch the reek
of ambushed dreams
rot by the roadside,
the gutter-water rushing over them.

I haven't, in a long time,
bled myself.


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