Another autumn day,
Walking alone in memory lane of my dreams;
Getting closer to the day
My soul arrived on earth.
Getting far from the taste of your lips.
My beloved; tips of my fingers
Are colored by ink of love
Writing you endless love letters;
That never be sent; never be opened.
It is Tehran; alone city, like me, in darkness of clouds and thoughts,
Wishing for thunderstorm, shower of light.
Our small garden, has two empty chairs; waiting for weight of your presence,
Walls are waiting to echo back the sound of honey drops from your mouth.
So close, so far;
Beside the flaming memories, my heart cries and my ink writes another letter
On watery eyes of time.
Oh, God how much I seek the forgetfulness
Desire to end this waiting…
Do you remember, how we sat in that small café
Across a wooden table, sipping our teas, holding hands.
Words were small to hold the passionate sounds of our hearts,
How could it be ended before it even began its pulse.
It is so hard to write to you, this soundless echo of love inside me;
Breaks my bone, to plant patience and grow faith.
Inside the bubbles of time, I count the drops of tears
On old newspapers, the salty taste between morning toast and the huge empty space in my life
For you, for us.
It is another autumn day, To take my red umbrella
And get lost in my foot steps on wet autumn leaves.
It is hard to breathe the air of this city;Tehran,
It is even harder to look and truly see
Where I am, but nothing really is as hard as feeling you so close
And know that nothing will fill this emptiness in my heart,
I am consumed in forever longing, to sleep in your shadow and never speak again.
You are my man, it was my sin to be a woman
Who desired you as wild, as passionate, as truthful as I was.
So, I am punished to exhilarate in lust and ecstatic desires, to eat my burning heart,
time that love provoke me to call your name.
Was it demon or angel that brought you into my eyes; into my heart.
Writing on invisible pages of poetry,
Asking my soul to show me a remedy
From this constant hunger for your vision, your smile
Your fiery lusty lips on mine…
Another autumn day, sitting on my tiny bed;
With hands tired of typing;
With heart tired of feelings,
With mind cracked of shattered dreams…
Ah, I need you God…
To make another story of me;
Away from this hunting dream.
It is so hard to write to you,
The man I loved more than life; more than sky, earth and my own breath.
I am drawn forever under love’s waves;
I am a stranger in this city, in this house,
My heart is homesick and my pen is dry
And my eyes, tearful.
How many more letter will be written in your love; when I am gone.
The soul of rose is killed,
Here is buried her dead petals,
the way of the poet is living with deaths, to write about love and beauty.
To have courage to peel her own skin, to feel pain and ache of wanting
And never hear one word from her lover,
So she sinks deeper in nostalgia and dream of her true love.
And one autumn day as she was born, she will be gone from face of earth,
Like a rose without a sound.
Copy right to Serena Devi