The child of my dreams
sang a lullaby
I dreamed
they had grown tall
and were asking for me
at the end of the street
The pages of the memory book
were lost in the disarrayed nightmare of the night
The date of tomorrow
could not be found
It seems as if it has always been today
the wandering time
swayed on the wall of the room
until we believed
in the curvature of the earth
Even the cycle of seasons
has become repetitive
and in the end, winter
dries up all moments
If only the trees had tongues
to whisper the memory of the storm
over and over
into the ear of the forest
Perhaps it wouldn’t have made a difference
for no one is meant to see
to say a word
to hear the breaking of a branch
or even
to count the falling leaves in autumn
The hinge of the wooden door
is rusted
no longer keeping track of the travelers
How short the distance
between departures has become
I will stay awake
until the end of the story
and carefully place the petals by the vase
between the pages of the book
so that the child of my dreams
can quietly see
the lullaby
in sleep
Arsalan – Tehran
(January 8, 2022)
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