POETRY

Fragile is the four walls

Surrounding me

Away from the cold

That awaits me in anger

I walk to the moon

A pale face fallen

In the midnight river

The endless madness

Drives through the night

taking my heart to the windows

And house holds in chains

With that air

That air of wanting to fly away

I hear four walls singing loud

To my heart

This is where I shall die

This is where I shall die

My heart holds in the music that lasted centuries

Never mortal

Always breathing under my skin

History of my house

as long as there were days

there were nights

thunders sleeping by the door

To keep the day out

Day sneaking in in shreds of lights

In swallow in pain to live

History of my house

broken face of father on the wall,

staring on life as it runs away

Through the crowded memory

Of windows

Bare feet and forgetful

In the streets of curfews all day, all night

History of my house

the flower pot fallen dry,

Away from the green memory

Of growing tall

out of my window

stretching wide and beautiful on my mind

Oh the forgotten green blood ….

I so wish for a garden

In desperation

And long walk on the roof top

To the moon

The forgetful moon

Smell of bread on the floor

Lays hungry of miracle and my mother’s hands

burn the oven with thorns

And the lost fire

Hunger should not live

Hunger should not live

History of my house

empty spaces of people close to my skin,

Gone with the wind

History of my house

where I wait for the breeze

I never known

staring through this window

at this forgotten lane of houses swollen with history

reciting the poetry of people in love with life

forsaken by all

History of my house

where I stand

every morning

opening a crevice

to where the sun sets on its way

and shut it at the point where the way ends

and I know well

that on my way to reach the rainbow

empty pockets of promises

weigh me down

and pinned to the wall

facing my house

Oh, I know

there will be knocks on my door again tonight

they will be waiting in the shadow of my olive trees tomorrow

to handcuff my being

and blindfold my walks

as I wonder will the breeze reach my face in time

-- Farah Afshari