At the year’s end market,
amid the crowd,
the silence
of a foreign presence
was easy
to recognize.
A cold
that slips into the body
has mistakenly
chosen
a warm refuge.
In the darkness of the room,
countless images
from near and far
march past.
The night has no intention of leaving;
perhaps
it has come
imagining
a nocturnal invitation.
Time here
is of another kind;
days
pass quickly,
and nights
slowly.
The wind
knocks
so fiercely
at the door;
as if it were fulfilling
the wish
of a long waiting.
Do not ask after us;
the onrush
of grey memories
runs rampant.
Waiting,
and now and then
the hurried ring of a phone;
a cup of coffee
gone cold.
And again
the soundlessness
of waiting.
From behind the window,
within its wooden frame,
the hut
at the edge of the yard
harbors
a secret
of loneliness.
One must
walk every day
on the wet ground,
with the thought
that distances
might grow shorter.
Arsalan – Wiesbaden
December 24, 2025
No comments:
Post a Comment