Sunday, February 3, 2013


If I were a city I would be the dusky ruins of Esfahan 
with walls and trenches and softness of mud-huts 
where you are safe like a travelling bird inside me.

If it were to be a word I would be a whispered memoirist. 
With the damp walls like salty eyes 
and the shimmered brilliance of a starry night. 
I would dissolve into oblivion living in some cornered contours 
and let you fill me. 

Amidst the inhabited cauldron of noises 
for music, I would let an Esraj play me 
of all those ways through which I can mime, 
'I love you.' 

May be a photograph that sits safe gathers windlessness 
and slowly beneath the shadows of scarce glances grows old and yellowed. 
For someday to be held to your bosom to complete itself.

I could be your journey that ends at home. 
A shadow that reaches your feet on warm summers. 
Solitary confinement absorbing your breaths and thoughts. 

Perhaps then, I would be a poetry by you, 
that slowly reveals itself like love and stays like a promise. 
That which marks the distance between a there and a here and a now 
with memories that stay 
until it is not about the memory but something beyond 
that we give each other along with kisses and books and life 
something like an assurance and a home. 

it is just as simple or difficult.

if this was.

vignette letter-

there were photographs 
to dreams,
you would 
in each one of them
always framed 
inside the mellowed contours 
of my palms

this was a poetry 
that could flow through 
the boundaries 
of heaven and earth 
like darwish 
it would then 
consist of just one line 
to infinity 
how I long for 
your feathered touches
and you skin of explored places

this were a home
it would carry no windows or doors
just soft carved walls
for you stay here with me
as there is no other place left now
for us to go

but this 
in all probability 
would be a short letter 
edged with 
my name underneath 
and so 
it would just say of
how even my name here 
is a reminiscence 
of solitude 
without your to accompany it, 
come along.


i do not remember 
when i spoke my first words or walked my first steps, 
my mother does and certain people around

not even the first day at school, 
perhaps vaguely but then i have been shoveled up to my neck 
with the photographs and details,

the day that i looked into the mirror 
after shaving off my childhood for the first time 
passed in a moment even before 
i could register the first few blood drops of the fresh wound

and yet they happened 
for they were meant to and that i did not notice anyone of them 
much like heartbeats and breathing's they were something so life affirming 
that they brewed into the cauldron of life

so, i say that i do not remember the moment i fell for you, 
much like my first words and steps 
it just happened to happen 
perhaps a tiny atom inside my heart and that one blood vessel 
which let go the blood a little faster 
may acknowledge it somehow

neither our first kiss, 
perhaps the winds 
and windows 
and the drapes 
and every intangible fragment around us remembers that 
for they were the mother 
of the moment of 
our beginings