I’d rather…
Imagine your voice,
Than hear it,
Stare at your picture,
Than see you,
Melt at your thought,
Than at your feet…
They say being apart destroys love,
But, my love,
Having you this way,
All to myself,
Always present behind my closed eyelids,
Is better than having to share you,
Even with myself.
In the mirror of my existence,
I see not me,
But the false image of a lost knight,
Battling demons of self,
And Conjurers of thought,
Through the lightless forests of apathy,
And black mountains of selfishness,
Slaying insult-spitting dragons of hatred,
And suffocating the sweating giants of frustration,
And as the knight crushes each obstacle,
He seeks not a maiden’s affection,
Not the rescue of his lord’s army,
Neither does he have a castle to return to,
Nor fields to which he could retire as a farmer,
All he seeks is another deep wound,
And the knowledge that the scar will be worth it.
Have you ever had ropes tied to the inside of your ribs?
A single rope for a single rib,
All tied back to your heart,
Contracting all the time,
And as time passes,
You could feel your chest collapsing upon itself,
Like a single grape drying up,
Till it shrivels,
And its but a raisin,
Did you know that the heart looks a bit like a raisin?
I feel those ropes contracting,
To where you are,
Every day…
And I wait for the day,
When I collapse back upon myself,
Then I shall have my heart back.
The dark circles around my eyes,
Or your eyes,
Does it matter?
Shared pain manifests itself in shared signs of misery,
I live,
On a promise that was never made,
A hope that doesn’t exist,
In space that doesn’t belong to me,
Time that I can scarcely touch,
And when I look at my eyes in the mirror,
I know that you might, too,
Exist,
So relative,
Makes me want to break through the fabric of spacetime,
Find a corner of the universe that’s both mine,
And yours,
And there,
We could watch the circles around our eyes fade,
And our eyes,
And our bodies,
And maybe even our souls,
If I ever find that corner some day,
I promise to wait for you,
Just as you never promised to return.
You shouldn’t make promises,
If you don’t want to keep them,
Shouldn’t say good bye,
Without intent,
Ask,
For what will always be yours anyway,
The questions will never be answered,
Until we run out of words,
And on the last page of our story,
The final sentence will be a promise,
“If it is forever,
Then so be it.”
- Shahryar -
I like dreaming,
Of stupid things like world peace!
And everyone learning to be like children,
Trusting themselves,
And hoping,
For a time when they, too,
Can have the dreams I have,
Yes,
I’m aware of the impossibility of it all,
The imminent possibility,
Of never seeing any of my dreams come true,
That’s okay, though,
Because I will still have them,
The child inside me,
Doesn’t want to be buried,
Alone.
Burdened by the weight of my own nothingness,
Tangled in the lines of your radiance,
Like a speck of dust,
Stuck in the web of a master weaver,
Stranded till I drop to the ground below,
By the fluttering wings of a new captive,
Perhaps a moth,
Before it’s insides are metled,
In the heat of passion of your thousand-legged spiderly love,
And consumed,
Then its dried up exoskeleton shall fragment,
Against the never-ending winds of passing,
Turn to dust,
And I’ll wait for it’s debris to join me,
Below,
Over the carcasses of many a fallen lovers,
Under the comfort of your shadow.
If I were you,
And you were me,
I’d let you know,
…because as unsure I am of Heaven,
I know,
That Hell…
is not knowing!
But you are you,
And I have yet to learn patience,
So when the trees get ready to shed their last leaves in November,
Be ready for me to stare down onto the leaves that couldn’t wait for winter,
And muster up a smile,
Because I’m still grateful,
And I’m still here,
To renew that promise again,
“I’ll wait till there’s never spring again.”
— Shahryar —
خون…
خون انسان
خون افغان
خون…
خون کودک و جوان
خون میانه سال و پیر
خون…
خون دختر و پسر
خون مرد و زن
خون…
خون خون است
چه در سمنگان
چه در کابل
چه در بامیان
خون…
نمی خواهم دیگر ببینمت
به ندرت به چشم ما بخور
خسته شدیم از تو
به هر نام که باشی
مسلمان و هندو و مسیحی و کلیمی
افغان و پاکستان و عرب و ایرانی
پشتون و تاجیک و ازبیک و هزاره
برو
برو و دیگر خاک ما را به خود آلوده نکن
بگذارمان
از رنگ سرخ تو
از بوی مخوف تو
از چسپناکیی شرشییت
دگیر هیچ نمی خواهم
برو
بجایت گل می خواهم
کتاب می خواهم
سرک می خواهم
برو
ای خون…
چه بگویم
دیگر حرف نماندی برایم
دیگر نمی خواهمت.
— جوش شما —
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