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Poetry

Butterfly

 

July 29, 2005
iranian.com

No one offered a hand
Not a bird, not a tree, not even God
To the dying butterfly
And falling was the colour of leaves in the Fall
A chain of yellowness flying in the air
Kissing the bare hands
For a last time
And falling wet as pain on the frozen soil
And all the creatures of living
With watchful eyes half opened
Stood still
Not to disturb the coming moment
And falling came so easy
when the wings stayed trapped
In the silent air of that dying day
And the falling came so easy
So easy I can't forget
I can't forgive
As I remember the wild smell of boiled rice
Flying free on that low balcony of life
Over the pages of that open book
On the old face of the table you once sat at
Watching the silent words fly
Those little white butterflies of dried wings
Who never fell
But fly back to your heart
I live not forgetting
Not forgiving
I will die not forgetting
not forgiving
That absence of souls
When death smelt the voices of living
How could life carry on
Looking at that butterfly caught by the hands of that stormy night
Through the windows of days
That never came

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