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.

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