 Time
By Reza Nabavian
June 13, 2003
The Iranian
The fabric of time,
pulverized in an instant,
its dust filling the air,
the particles carrying the past,
with useless precision,
the horror of the observers;
I breathe the past,
walking past the dust,
the axis of time,
its perfunctory passage,
pains me,
the struggle, the race,
against its constant pace;
Give me a moment,
to keep forever,
that moment I suffocate with pleasure,
to release the chains,
to accept the faith,
as I wrap his body,
with timeless precision;
His cold touch,
a reminder of the freedom,
to be the dust that floats,
my father,
with no direction,
the victor against the army of time.
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