A snow-white garment
settles softly
on the dark body of time.
A leaf,
silently
extinguished in the soil,
counts the farewells of autumn
with the bare fingers
of the garden.
Even the cloud’s troubled gaze
lingers
in the press of the wind,
which, with winter’s cold,
covers the weakened body
of the plain.
Where in the soul
have you made your nest, pain,
that now and then
the cry of a lament
draws the stillness of the house
into mourning?
It is a relentless sorrow,
beloved,
and surely
the air of release requires
the circle of your arms
to ease the heavy weight of weariness
from the shoulders
down
to the earth.
I long for a garment,
woven from the silken threads of rain,
in the vivid hue of childlike fervor—
so that the children, no longer ashamed,
will not say:
“These days pass bitterly…
do something.”
Arsalan
Wiesbaden, November 30, 2025
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