before your sleep,
wish me suffocation,
whereas this air has become glass fragments in their gaseous state,
each breath is a wound
Oh, my mother!!
Perhaps the claim of insanity for a lifetime is a cowardly suicide;
but no doubt it is more courageous than trying to stay alive, with a sound mind and a matronly consciousness.
What hurts you, what makes you laugh, the most, after all this,
that at the end, when you will be chewing your last share of the air, with all that you can of slowness,
you will realize that all what had passed,
was only a long silly play
no one was watching it since the opening, but you;
everything else was just a decors and comparses,
a meanly deceiving to continue watching,
until your eyelids shut down for the last time, without applause.
I stepped on a long staircase,
in the middle of it, loomed to me nothing,
determined to return, I saw the door closed,
I sat down in my place and cried.
What’s the matter with all of us:
worried, scared, hesitant, breathless, rushing, “dogged”, hydrophobic to the degree of murder,
let’s calm down a bit and be reassured;
we will all die at the end,
isn’t this a comfortable fact!
A horror is all what this existence is about,
such as a piano gloomy tune
played by half-amputated fingers
just before the twilight end with a yawning.
So, this cosmos, that we could not deal with, but seriously,
is just a point, that its ink dried,
do you believe that!
prisoners of a black desert by the size of a point;
fight and eat each other for a drop of water or a spot of light.
Nothing is what we reaped, nothing is what we will reap;
only perhaps, that harsh foul-flavour pile of gravel, which we smuggled with us throughout our life’s stations, hidden with a mother mastery, who sutures an invisible amulet in a trouser of a heretic son,
to masticate it, that pile of remorse, surreptitiously in the ruins of old age,
break our molars with it,
stammer in sorrowful words that no one can understand, but us,
abstain eating under the pretext of difficulty chewing,
then, with a lover’s yearning, await our desired death at any moment.
No new is happening;
you wake up, bury your head in your daydreams’ sands,
until the sunset from the face of the universe,
cautiously you raise it,
to inhale the darkness with your whole lungs,
then, with a believer’s gratitude, you start crying
that how you survived, for another day, of life.
As if they conduct for all of us, before we are born, a genetic analysis for the amount of grief that hidden in our chromosomes, so If we have, what will be enough of it, before the time runs out of us, we are born
and If not;
we die in the wombs “happily”
And what if the stars are just lamps of lonely people’s houses!
those who always awake, staring into that blue void;
till a day comes, they get bored of that
they turn off their lamps, sleep the eternity.
If I just know the glutton who gnaws the moon whenever it was completed!
Are we more than lonely spaced snowy beings?
melt once we touch each other,
become more loneliness, as much as the cold grows inside us.
Drowned, in this soil, we walk, swallow decomposed water
As an only survivor of the last war
the grape’s grain that, in your throat suddenly falls, while you are yawning a remorse of the salvation
lying under a shadow of a wrecked wall, that in its gaps, a grape tree climbs;
then it chokes you,
that is the nature’s defence of the poetics of irony.
And because selves yearn, no matter, they were closed, to expand;
we never get bored of our permanently falling into the trap of horizon.
The greatest poetry which I do not think it has been said yet;
who has spoken, in his entire life, only once, a single common voice among the whole languages of the world:
Perhaps, nothing happens to us nohow,
perhaps, it’s only the self, any self, is just like this, painful and suffers, when every a breath passed through it,