Spoiled poetry
December 14, 2004
iranian.com
Of course I tried to tell myself
That "things will come together"
But I couldn't bare it uncoiling a smile and letting it
sail
Without an excuse
I told myself the stars have chased away the sun
While I murmured still burning with: "what's the
use?"
My passage of life
Has become my life of passage
Into a target for passing I have become the silence
Lodged in the injustices lodged in my throat
And I have tapped the melody of dreams on my shot
glass and lonely one night stands
And I have slimmed down my notebooks into one-word lines and
disconnected varieties
And to make my life work as well as it could I
have summarized your
Fragile taste buds into a sour and sweet fruit
I'm writing to tell you,
That my childhood makes me tremble
That I am uselessly waiting without surprise
For my sick man's heart to bloom into my great man's
rise
You replace my sparrows with sorrows in one herniating
course and
darken between my fingers without one mischievous dream kept
secret for remorse
Ghosts scattered along the coasts of where I sit,
and rains
Begins to fall from the moment Nothingness has eaten from the
apple of my Patience
Too long has the world waited for a prophet, too
Long
Have I waited at the harbor for my culture to arrive on its ship
Too long have I spoke to the fog about my heart
Too long, I've kept this tight lip
And I have given up negotiating
And my time has passed with spoiled poetry
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