Unripe

The basket was heavy and the stairs seemed to climb in their spiral course to the peak of Alvand the flow of blood halted in its course in the tight grip of the cold handles on the hand. And the tired heart carried on its shoulder the weight of its destiny’s cross. At the threshold the load was cast down the blade came down on the hard rind and the watermelon, unripe, opened its lips wide in mockery a cold sigh rose. Basket in hand a shadow passes over the border of the threshold...