Stands with a crystal wand in hand
Eyeing the racing words
It’s you running wild in the night of mine succession of words}
{Saying You Are Not, which truth be told, you’re right
Doves, her words and self
One dove hidden in sleeve
So she can be entirely and silently both the magician and the magic
In my head, you, creeping with blows}
{?In whom the Multiplicated blow of a halt holds
There’s delicacy of a sore in her with a crystal wand
An injury to self and an injury to God
With a hint of bodylessness she questions stoutness
You are with invasive words the body in my body}
{Molten crystal you are in my clusters
———————————————————————–
Abouzar Karimi
Poet, Author, Critic
Tehran, Iran
2015
unpublished, The Book Of Meanwhile
Translated By Saghi Ghahraman
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