My hope is intense

As intense as the throbbing vein in between my brows

It comes and goes

But when here, mistake you make no more

It stings and burns

As the emptiness that roams eleven rooms of the house

 

A cannon ball of fire I usually enter

Speed of light mostly feathered

I feel the farthest winds coming from the bottoms of the sea

No resistance towards my ignorance

No revolt against revelations

I connect deep in layers of insomniac dreams

I bend logic and mock your foul tastes

Yet my hope is the poem you choose for your mother's grave

The rose he put in my hair

Yalda arriving nonplussed

Soon after long hard hours in bed

 

It is the word of Albert Camus

Like a moment for madness of sincerity

My hope is the tear she shed when he grazed in between her breasts and confessed

Love was a myth, someone said today, a faraway lie

 

Then they detach the seeds of joy of their sons

Collect them in hard lonely balls and rush

To a hundred and so friends and colleagues and such