The snow-white mantle
falls gently
upon the somber frame of time.
A leaf,
silenced
within the earth,
counts autumn’s moments of farewell
with the bare fingers
of the garden.
The cloud’s troubled gaze as well
lingers
in the urgency of the wind,
which, with winter’s chill,
clothes the weakened body
of the plain.
Where in the soul
have you taken root, O pain,
that now and again
the voice of lament
draws the hush of the house
into mourning?
It is a sorrow without mercy,
my beloved,
and surely
the air of deliverance requires
the circle of your arms,
to lay the heavy burden of weariness
from the shoulders
down
to the earth.
I yearn for a mantle,
woven of the silken warp of rain,
in the vivid hue of childlike ardor—
so that the children, with downcast eyes,
may no longer say:
“These days are bitter…
do something.”
Arsalan
Wiesbaden, 30 November 2025
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