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I can hear the sound of footsteps of longing
And the sound of footsteps of blood’s law in the vein
The pulse of dawn in the pigeon’s well
The heartbeat of Thursday evening
The flow of clove pink in thought
The pure neigh of truth from distance
I can hear the blowing of the female
And the sound of the shoe of faith in the alley of longing
And the sound of rainfall on the eyelid of the love’s body
Over the sad music of puberty
Over the song of pomegranate groves
And the sound of shattering of glass in the evening the tearing of the paper beauty
And filling and refilling of cup of nostalgia from the wind
I am close to the beginning of earth
I pick up the pulse of flowers
I am familiar with the wet fate of water and the green habit of the tree
My soul flows towards the new direction of objects my soul is young
My soul sometimes coughs from joy
My soul is idle
It counts raindrops, the holes in bricks,
My soul is sometimes true as a rock on the road
I haven’t seen two poplars to be enemies
I haven’t seen a willow selling its shade to the ground
The elm tree freely bestows its branch to the crow wherever there is a leaf my passion blossoms a poppy bush has bathed me in the flow of existence
I know the weight of the dawn like the wing of an insect
I listen to the music of growth like a flowerpot like a basketful of fruit I have high fever to ripen
I stand on the border of languor in the tavern
Like a building at the edge of the sea I am anxious about the long eternal waves
Sun as much as you want, union as much as you wish, multiplication as much as you want
I am content with an apple
And with smelling of chamomile plant
I am content with a mirror, a pure relationship
I won’t laugh if the balloon bursts
I won’t laugh if a philosophy halves the moon
I know the flapping found of quail’s wings
The color of bustard’s belly, footprints of mountain goat
I well know where rhubarbs grow
When starlings comes, when partridges sing,
When falcons die
I know well the meaning of moon in a sleeping desert
Death in the stalks of desire
And raspberries of pleasure in the mouth of copulation
Life is a pleasant custom
Life wears wings as wide as death
It leaps to the dimensions of love
Life is nothing that might from my mind and your mind in the tip of habit’s shelf
Life is the attraction of a hand that reaps
Life is the first black fig in the acrid mouth of summer
Life is the dimension of a tree in the eyes of an insect
Life is the experience of bat in the darkness
Life is a strange sense experienced by a migrating bird
Life is the whistling of a train ringing in the sleep of a bridge
Life is like looking at a garden through the closed window of an airplane
The news of a rocket flying to the space
Touching the solitude of moon
The thought of smelling the flower in other planets
Life is washing a plate
Life is finding a penny in the street gutter
Life is the square of the mirror
Life is the flower multiplied to eternity
Life is the earth multiplied in our heartbeats
Life is a simple and monotonous geometry of breaths
Where I am, let it be so
The sky is mine
The window, thought, air, love, earth is mine
What signifies?
If mushrooms of nostalgia
Sometimes grow?
I don’t know
Why some say that the horse is a noble animal, the pigeon is beautiful
And why no vulture dwells in any person’s cage
I wonder why the clover is interior to alfalfa
One must wash eyes, look differently to things words must be washed
The word must be wind itself, the word must be the rain itself
One must shut umbrellas
One must walk in the rain
One must carry the thought, the recollection in the rain
One must go walk in the rain with all the townsfolk
One must see friends in the rain
One must search love in the rain
One must sleep with a woman in the rain
One must play in the rain
One must write, talk and plant lotus flowers in the rain
Life is repeated wetting
Life is swimming in the pond of present
Let’s undress
The brook is a step away
Let’s taste light
Let’s weigh the night of a village, and the dream of a gazelle
Let’s feel the warmth of the stork’s nest
Let’s not step on the law of meadow
Let’s open the knot of taste in the vineyard
And open our mouths when the moon emerges
Let’s not say that moon is a bad thing
Let’s not say that the glowworm is ignorant of the garden’s insight
And bring a basket
Take all this red, all this green
Let’s eat bread and cheese in mornings
And plant a sapling at every pitch of a sentence
And pour the seed of silence between two syllables
Let’s not read a book in which the wind doesn’t blow
And a book in which the skin of dew is not wet
And a book in which cells are dimensionless
Let’s not wish the mosquito to fly from the fingertip of nature
Let’s not wish the leopard to exit from the gate of creation
We should understand that life would miss something if now worm existed
And the law of the tree would be damaged of no caterpillars existed
And our hands would seek after something if death didn’t exist
Let’s understand that the living logic of flight would change if there was no light
Let’s understand that there was a vacuum in the thought of seas when no corals were born
And let’s not ask where are we
Let’s smell the fresh petunias in the hospital
Let’s not ask where is the jet of fortune
Let’s not ask why the heart of truth is blue
Let’s not ask what breeze, what nights enjoyed our forefathers enjoyed
Behind us no living space exists
Behind us sings no bird
Behind us now wind blows
Behind us the green window of poplar is shut
Behind us dust has settled over every whirligig
Behind us lies the fatigue of history
Behind us the memory of wave pours cold shells of silence
Let’s walk to the beach
Let’s cast the net in the water
And catch freshness from water
Let’s pick up a pebble from the ground
Feel the weight of existence
Let’s not abuse moonshine if we suffer from fever
(Occasionally I have observed the moon descending during fever
And reaching the hand of the roof of heaven
I have noticed the goldfinch singing better
Sometimes the wound beneath my foot
Has taught the ups and downs of earth
Sometimes in my sickbed the dimension of the rose has multiplied
And the diameter of orange has increased, the radius of lantern too)
And let’s not fear death
(Death is not the end of pigeon
Death is not the cricket’s inversion
Death flows in the mind of acacia
Death dwells in the pleasant climate of mind
Death speak of morning within the nature of village night
Death comes into the mouth with the bunch of grapes
Death sings in red larynx of throat
Death is responsible for the beauty of butterfly’s wing
Death sometimes picks up basis
Death sometimes empties vodka
Death sometimes sit in the shade, watching us and we all know
The lungs of pleasures is full of oxygen of death)
Let’s not shut the door to living speech of destiny which we hear from behind the hedges of sound
Let’s remove the curtains
Let’s allow our feeling to drink fresh air
Let’s allow puberty to dwell under any bush it wishes
Let’s allow instinct to play
Let’s allow all it to take off its shoes and leap over the flowers following seasons
Let’s allow solitude to sing a song
To write something
To go to the street
Let’s be plain
Let’s be plain whether in front of the teller’s window or under a tree
It is not our business to fathom the mystery of rose
Perhaps our business is to float within the magic of the rose
Camp behind wisdom
Wash our hands in the ecstasy of a leaf and waling to the table
And be born again when the sun rises in the mornings
Let’s allow our excitement to fly
Let’s pour water upon the perception of space, color, sound and the window of flowers
Let’s set heaven between two syllables of existence
Let’s is fill and empty our lungs with eternity
Let’s lift down the burden of knowledge from the shoulders of the swallow
Let’s take back our name from the cloud
From the plane tree, mosquito, summer
Let’s mount to the height of kindness of the wet feet of rain
Let’s open the door open the door to mankind, light, plants and inspects
Or business is perhaps
To run between the lotus flower and the century after the sound of truth
Kashan, Chenar Village, summer 1994
And the sound of footsteps of blood’s law in the vein
The pulse of dawn in the pigeon’s well
The heartbeat of Thursday evening
The flow of clove pink in thought
The pure neigh of truth from distance
I can hear the blowing of the female
And the sound of the shoe of faith in the alley of longing
And the sound of rainfall on the eyelid of the love’s body
Over the sad music of puberty
Over the song of pomegranate groves
And the sound of shattering of glass in the evening the tearing of the paper beauty
And filling and refilling of cup of nostalgia from the wind
I am close to the beginning of earth
I pick up the pulse of flowers
I am familiar with the wet fate of water and the green habit of the tree
My soul flows towards the new direction of objects my soul is young
My soul sometimes coughs from joy
My soul is idle
It counts raindrops, the holes in bricks,
My soul is sometimes true as a rock on the road
I haven’t seen two poplars to be enemies
I haven’t seen a willow selling its shade to the ground
The elm tree freely bestows its branch to the crow wherever there is a leaf my passion blossoms a poppy bush has bathed me in the flow of existence
I know the weight of the dawn like the wing of an insect
I listen to the music of growth like a flowerpot like a basketful of fruit I have high fever to ripen
I stand on the border of languor in the tavern
Like a building at the edge of the sea I am anxious about the long eternal waves
Sun as much as you want, union as much as you wish, multiplication as much as you want
I am content with an apple
And with smelling of chamomile plant
I am content with a mirror, a pure relationship
I won’t laugh if the balloon bursts
I won’t laugh if a philosophy halves the moon
I know the flapping found of quail’s wings
The color of bustard’s belly, footprints of mountain goat
I well know where rhubarbs grow
When starlings comes, when partridges sing,
When falcons die
I know well the meaning of moon in a sleeping desert
Death in the stalks of desire
And raspberries of pleasure in the mouth of copulation
Life is a pleasant custom
Life wears wings as wide as death
It leaps to the dimensions of love
Life is nothing that might from my mind and your mind in the tip of habit’s shelf
Life is the attraction of a hand that reaps
Life is the first black fig in the acrid mouth of summer
Life is the dimension of a tree in the eyes of an insect
Life is the experience of bat in the darkness
Life is a strange sense experienced by a migrating bird
Life is the whistling of a train ringing in the sleep of a bridge
Life is like looking at a garden through the closed window of an airplane
The news of a rocket flying to the space
Touching the solitude of moon
The thought of smelling the flower in other planets
Life is washing a plate
Life is finding a penny in the street gutter
Life is the square of the mirror
Life is the flower multiplied to eternity
Life is the earth multiplied in our heartbeats
Life is a simple and monotonous geometry of breaths
Where I am, let it be so
The sky is mine
The window, thought, air, love, earth is mine
What signifies?
If mushrooms of nostalgia
Sometimes grow?
I don’t know
Why some say that the horse is a noble animal, the pigeon is beautiful
And why no vulture dwells in any person’s cage
I wonder why the clover is interior to alfalfa
One must wash eyes, look differently to things words must be washed
The word must be wind itself, the word must be the rain itself
One must shut umbrellas
One must walk in the rain
One must carry the thought, the recollection in the rain
One must go walk in the rain with all the townsfolk
One must see friends in the rain
One must search love in the rain
One must sleep with a woman in the rain
One must play in the rain
One must write, talk and plant lotus flowers in the rain
Life is repeated wetting
Life is swimming in the pond of present
Let’s undress
The brook is a step away
Let’s taste light
Let’s weigh the night of a village, and the dream of a gazelle
Let’s feel the warmth of the stork’s nest
Let’s not step on the law of meadow
Let’s open the knot of taste in the vineyard
And open our mouths when the moon emerges
Let’s not say that moon is a bad thing
Let’s not say that the glowworm is ignorant of the garden’s insight
And bring a basket
Take all this red, all this green
Let’s eat bread and cheese in mornings
And plant a sapling at every pitch of a sentence
And pour the seed of silence between two syllables
Let’s not read a book in which the wind doesn’t blow
And a book in which the skin of dew is not wet
And a book in which cells are dimensionless
Let’s not wish the mosquito to fly from the fingertip of nature
Let’s not wish the leopard to exit from the gate of creation
We should understand that life would miss something if now worm existed
And the law of the tree would be damaged of no caterpillars existed
And our hands would seek after something if death didn’t exist
Let’s understand that the living logic of flight would change if there was no light
Let’s understand that there was a vacuum in the thought of seas when no corals were born
And let’s not ask where are we
Let’s smell the fresh petunias in the hospital
Let’s not ask where is the jet of fortune
Let’s not ask why the heart of truth is blue
Let’s not ask what breeze, what nights enjoyed our forefathers enjoyed
Behind us no living space exists
Behind us sings no bird
Behind us now wind blows
Behind us the green window of poplar is shut
Behind us dust has settled over every whirligig
Behind us lies the fatigue of history
Behind us the memory of wave pours cold shells of silence
Let’s walk to the beach
Let’s cast the net in the water
And catch freshness from water
Let’s pick up a pebble from the ground
Feel the weight of existence
Let’s not abuse moonshine if we suffer from fever
(Occasionally I have observed the moon descending during fever
And reaching the hand of the roof of heaven
I have noticed the goldfinch singing better
Sometimes the wound beneath my foot
Has taught the ups and downs of earth
Sometimes in my sickbed the dimension of the rose has multiplied
And the diameter of orange has increased, the radius of lantern too)
And let’s not fear death
(Death is not the end of pigeon
Death is not the cricket’s inversion
Death flows in the mind of acacia
Death dwells in the pleasant climate of mind
Death speak of morning within the nature of village night
Death comes into the mouth with the bunch of grapes
Death sings in red larynx of throat
Death is responsible for the beauty of butterfly’s wing
Death sometimes picks up basis
Death sometimes empties vodka
Death sometimes sit in the shade, watching us and we all know
The lungs of pleasures is full of oxygen of death)
Let’s not shut the door to living speech of destiny which we hear from behind the hedges of sound
Let’s remove the curtains
Let’s allow our feeling to drink fresh air
Let’s allow puberty to dwell under any bush it wishes
Let’s allow instinct to play
Let’s allow all it to take off its shoes and leap over the flowers following seasons
Let’s allow solitude to sing a song
To write something
To go to the street
Let’s be plain
Let’s be plain whether in front of the teller’s window or under a tree
It is not our business to fathom the mystery of rose
Perhaps our business is to float within the magic of the rose
Camp behind wisdom
Wash our hands in the ecstasy of a leaf and waling to the table
And be born again when the sun rises in the mornings
Let’s allow our excitement to fly
Let’s pour water upon the perception of space, color, sound and the window of flowers
Let’s set heaven between two syllables of existence
Let’s is fill and empty our lungs with eternity
Let’s lift down the burden of knowledge from the shoulders of the swallow
Let’s take back our name from the cloud
From the plane tree, mosquito, summer
Let’s mount to the height of kindness of the wet feet of rain
Let’s open the door open the door to mankind, light, plants and inspects
Or business is perhaps
To run between the lotus flower and the century after the sound of truth
Kashan, Chenar Village, summer 1994
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