The renewal of the year
in this land
bears the hue of estrangement.
The indifferent glances of passersby
deepen
the melancholy of dusk.
⸻
What curious custom—
to mark the feast
months
before the coming of spring.
⸻
Excuses are few and simple;
merely a moment
for a distant smile.
⸻
There are no visits;
perhaps
they dread
the winter’s closed roads.
⸻
The branches stand bare,
and the trees,
arrayed in frost,
have grown still.
⸻
A heavy fog
rests,
awaiting
a cup
of hot tea,
upon the earth.
⸻
Each night,
the tiled roof
keeps vigil
with the sound of rain;
without shelter,
even dreams
are denied.
⸻
For many days
no tidings of the sun have come;
perhaps
it lingers
in the holidays
of the year’s end.
⸻
In the silence of the alley,
even
the echo of a gaze
turns to ice.
⸻
Your cheeks
are in bloom;
allow me,
through the touch of my hands,
to kindle a fire.
⸻
Arsalan — Wiesbaden
December 15, 2025
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