Let’s not curse the moonlight when we have a temperature. (Once in a fever, I noticed the moon descend The arms stretch for the heaven. I heard the goldfinch warbling better.) Sometimes, the wounds in my feet Have taught me the ups and downs of the earth. Sometimes, in my sickbed, the flowers multiplied And the orange and the lantern increased in size. Let’s not stand in dread of death. (Death is not the end of a pigeon. Death is not the inversion of a cricket. Death flows in the minds of acacias. Death dwells in the Pleasant Climate of Mind. Death speaks of dawn in the Nature of Village Night. Death goes into the mouth with a bunch of grapes. Death sings in the larynx of the robin. Death is responsible for the beauty of butterfly’s wings. Death sometimes picks basils Drinks vodka Sits in the shade, and watches us. We all know The Lungs of Pleasure are filled with the oxygen of death. Sohrab Sepehri
Posted on: Sun, 01 Sep 2013 02:13:47 +0000
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