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?”
“I pity the French Cinema because it has no money. I pity the American Cinema because it has no ideas.”
(Image: Godard’s “Made in U.S.A”)
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.”
(Illustration By Alexey Kurbatov)
(Artwork by Francisca Pageo)
The world, lately, has been black and white;
with a touch of transparency,
in the shape of nude wings,
filled up with empty carafes.
Today, she chose to hide,
while he picked foolishness
over the childhood fairytale, over purity.
She, in reverse, cherished the Parisian sky
and the wrinkles as she smiled.
The true moment came their way eagerly, merrily.
Flooded into their ghostly robes;
into their lonely dawns.
The words failed her this morning,
left her existence unnoticed,
and suddenly she felt the fragrant
coolness of being hidden.
What bliss.
S
The smoke curls up high
above her, fading out in the cold.
Her virgin little heart is still;
and the cruel poison beats
horizontally, vertically.
She chews on the blue candies;
swallows the strike of the words;
drinks up the bruised thoughts
and the whole river;
behind her flesh, behind her blood.
And me, I’m simply there,
switching between Chinese blues
and lovers in Japan –
desire pulls through me
and I search for ways to express.
S
“Love isn’t there to make us happy.
I believe it exists to show us how much we can endure.”
— Hermann Hesse in Peter Camenzind
The eyelids started to open
one after the other;
witnessing the early birds
and the mascara stains on the pillowcase.
Fighting the nightmare of the chimney guy;
restoring the lovemaking stories.
Yawn.
The light is still blinking –
after all these years, she wonders.
The never-ending blinks tell her everything
but don’t tell her anything.
Yawn again.
The alarm goes off –
How desperate; how annoying.
Snooze.
And again, it goes off.
Is it the art of sound that matters to her
or perhaps the shape of anxiety?
Stop.
She rises – calling his name out loud.
She puts a new postcard
on the mirror and goes crazy
for the reflection of her face.
Then reads the same love letter
written by her hero; by the love of her life –
knowing all the words by heart.
The door is open.
Bang.
The door is shut.
She feels the flakes on her dried-out skin,
and the freshness of the northern wind.
She catched the very
first train and puts the
“last train” on repeat.
S
