What is the place this wind takes rest at apocalyptic nights? 

And if it is relentless then how come every time it passes through me, it makes me massless,

it makes me a stained curtain for my forgotten lover’s? 

For whom the Time runs like a bloody Heron…

and if it is companion less then it must get it’s voyeuristic pleasures from our undressed affairs. 

Why whiskey goes into our body and our molecular souls and comes out as nothing? 

This is not romantic…this is not the anatomy of a genius woodcutter. 

Why people…means people with some humour, get crucified on their beds after a day of void postures? 

I know the hell about these, but I do know…

We crosses the milestones for their crying baritones…

They hold our fingers and makes jazz on our graves…

That’s art without the expectation of appreciations. 

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Photograph: Majid Saeidi.