Manoucher Avaznia

Who assigned my soul, to such a devil

Of whose best intents, spite I smell?

From high heavens, of a freedom

It has dragged me, to jail of a well.

Nobody knows me; I know nobody

Only my both ears, receive what I yell.

By groping hands, upon these objects

Tinge of their colors, I can never tell.

Fruits of my search, I reap at the end:

Pain of the fingers, that always swell.

Where are the buyers, of crops of ache?

Such a product, can I ever sell?

I am so amazed, at turn of events

To this dull abode, why at all I fell.

How low I will fall, from where I am

No philospher, can ever foretell. 

Still, I recall, what master whispered:

"Chehree don't grieve; one day you get well". 

November 06, 2006

Ottawa