She runs, ran, runs
under the wet April sky;
witnessing two homeless
geese and a lonely towel
lying on the bench.

In the name of faith
she then lies – why?
To sacrifice tiny hopes;
to kill the envious;
to love their smiles.

S

How can I have faith in you and your dreams
while reddish ink is leaking from the rival’s lips?

Where have you gone? To the world of opulence?
What drug can heal this dangerous liaison?

I’m free from your anchored heart, out of my own mind,
crazy in love for an unknown soul – year after year.

The passing days; even the time is unfaithful today.
We sever ties and I bid you farewell. Alas, forever.

S

“When people say, ‘She’s got everything’, I’ve got one answer – I haven’t had tomorrow.”

— Elizabeth Taylor (Feb. 27, 1932 – March 23, 2011)

(Image by Andy Warhol)

1390’s res·o·lu·tion = kill them with (more) kindness.

Happy Norouz lovers.

S

(Artwork by Francisca Pageo)

“Life is perhaps lighting up a cigarette

in the narcotic repose between two love-makings

or the absent gaze of a passerby

who takes off his hat to another passerby

with a meaningless smile and a good morning.”

— Forough Farrokhzad

(From her poem: “Another Birth”)

I dreamt of the newborn leaves

in an impeccable race with

the birds on strike and

the broken ladder

on cold concrete;

with the dusty air

filled with

nostalgia.

Counting down

in fast forward;

three,

skipping the two,

and

one

…

I deify the moment

in slow motion,

cherish the Spring,

and honour our beloved

Norouz.

S

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?”

— Mary Oliver

The smell of the perfume is dancing

in the air; proudly, tenderly.

The wet sky washes the stormy brain,

enduring the sweet sorrows; bare and boundless.

Today, the world is at last hers.

She admires the raindrops.

Watching them hitting one by one,

melting down the dirty snow

just like the summer heat dissolving

a blueberry sorbet scoop in the antique land.

The steamy window is nothing less

than an old treasure map, guiding her to

the moment of truth; to nostalgia.

Breaking the steam, she writes down

her thoughts: “I shall move yet again.”

S

“The weak are more likely to make the strong weak than the strong are likely to make the weak strong.”

— Marlene Dietrich

(Illustration By Alexey Kurbatov)

(Artwork by Francisca Pageo)