The tongue
was never accustomed
to silence
It overflowed with the redness of words
as tall and mighty as the cypress
whose green crown
had been bought
at the price of life
The soul
was never accustomed
to the onslaught of night
In the restlessness of your pupils
it could be seen
the nakedness of a fearless cry
was concealed
deep within
The heart
was never accustomed
to forgetfulness
A secret seemed
to have settled there as a trust
and every time in a dream
it spread its wings
embraced the bed of solitude
and washed the hangover of night
with a drop of bitterness
Yet the city
wore the sorrowful cloak of night
a product of an ancient pain
that had fed for many years
etching the red trace of language
as a legacy
on the dark walls of time
Arsalan - Tehran
October 5th, 2024
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