Joy

Don’t go far from me look at my tears. Our houses are far from each other of themselves. Long borders lie between us. Black unwritten laws - still - are wound around our hands and feet. Don’t go far from me look at the trembling of my hand. Even on the tree leaves do not come out of themselves. How will I find you in a city whose roads all turn back of themselves to the past and pour into dark cells? in a land whose rivers have all of themselves taken refuge in narrow underground channels? Only the fish, forever in the arms of water, are born with a smile and die with a smile. Look at my tears. The pomegranate tree will bear fruit in the month of Mehr the houses we live in are very far from each other. Come, let me seed a sweet pomegranate and pour the seeds into the cup of your hand with my own hand. The fruits of Mehr, of themselves, alone, rot on the branch. Give me your hand ...