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My hands & your eyes


May 21, 2005

Look, my hands have aged

The very hands that with me travelled near and far

To  high and low points in life

The hands that touched the stars and dust

Wiped away my tears and waved goodbye

And remained strong as mountain would

And in a  language a child understands

Told me the story of existence and  extinction

My hands have aged

The warm stories touch the frozen windows

And that strange and playful voice

From the bottom of my garden calls

“open the window”

My hands do not hear

My hands in the old dream of a tomorrow to come

See the strange playful voice

To be a door opening at walls of pale silence

“No spring will ever grow on the walls again”

My strong as mountain used to be hands say

My hands have aged

And the disturbing dreams of yesterday

Have played a magic on my fingers

And the seeds of hail from between them

Fall on a cement ground

And explode in silence

My hands have aged

My hands climb on the long and smooth walls of wanting

And in the suddenness of  a silent moment

Throw themselves in the hollow air

In that dry wintry air

And with a narrow singing of a death

They hit the ground

Where do I go from here?

Where do I go from here

With these old hands

It is like

All the lines and all the signs have gone missing

Oh if only the green dreams of your eyes could last forever

For letters section
To Farah Afshari

Farah Afshari


Book of the day

The Pursuit of Pleasure
Drugs and Stimulants in Iranian History, 1500-1900
by Rudi Matthee

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