The year turns.
Here,
it wears the color of exile.
Indifferent faces
on the street
thicken
the weight of dusk.
⸻
What ritual is this—
celebrating the feast
months
before spring?
⸻
Excuses are light;
a pretext
for a borrowed smile.
⸻
No visits.
Maybe
they fear
winter’s blocked roads.
⸻
Bare branches.
Trees
queued in frost,
motionless.
⸻
Fog,
waiting
for hot tea,
rests
on the ground.
⸻
At night,
the roof stays awake
with rain.
No umbrella—
not even dreams
survive.
⸻
Days pass
without a sign of the sun.
Perhaps
it’s taken
end-of-year leave.
⸻
In the alley’s silence,
even
the gaze
freezes.
⸻
Your cheeks glow.
Let me
warm the dark
with my hands.
⸻
Arsalan — Wiesbaden
December 15, 2025
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