carried there through the language that I understand yet can only mime.
I cannot speak this language, the mother of all poetry. Iran, birthed from the ancient ruins of God's first holy place, I hear its forgotten song as whispers inside my mind,
yet cannot utter nor write of this beauty in the language that has formed me.
And this will remain in my memory, the sweetest of cruelties.
As each day passes, I feel my body within begin to overflow in its capacity. There are tears that have formed a current as strong as the deeper parts of the cold, blue sea. And I ask each night for a gentler hand to subside, yet am met only by that which I defy.
I am all tied up in knots, you see. Bound by these emotions that stem from a wise and cunning Intellect. Yet my sorrow feels as real as any love that is birthed from this womb. To question,
This room.
I have remained unforgiving to myself for too long.