Sunday, 14 August 2016

A cigarette ends the narration





I am a metamorphosis, 
A corpse rolling on grain of sand  
I am a white thin line  
Where the depression starts from it  
I am the last lock of hair  
In the head of man,  
  

Man,   
There is a talkative man   
Sits at the end of the tree   
His feet are wide open   
The butterflies eat his eyes. 
And there is a little girl   
Sits in the beginning of the tree   
She annexed her feet   
Eyes,   
Hands,   
And braids,   
Then turned into an apple   
An apple eaten by crows.   


Crows,   
Crows turned their eyes   
Where the corpses' guard sits,  
He smokes   
And shouts:   
We cannot walk above sea   
Either run above sky   
We are trapped between two blues,   
Which become tight slowly   
Until we get out of it   
Like a spit of kid   
Landing on a pile of ants,   
    

Ants,   
I have no word to talk about ants,   
I am tired   
Bored,   
Isolated,   
I walked to the corpses' guard   
Wanted to hold him,   
I need his hands to free crows and butterflies   
And to put roses in every ant's mouth   
   

I looked at him,   
From his cigarette come out white lines   
One line got into my eyes   
Blinded me   
And it was the same line,   
Where the depression ends.



Artwork by: Keyvan Mahjoor

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