when i was nine
dad took me to Shiraz in Iran
also known as a city of poets, wine and flowers.
the soulful beauty of its people
was like the ancient sun
lifted by scimitar moon into gentle bronze.
and as we walked along Chahar-souq
after cups of a dizzy-sweet chai
we imagined we floated on a carpet
from a jolly buzz of the spice market
into a magical desert
where sand was witness
to a plentiful of unspoken legends
and each whiff of wind was a star song


in spaces
where softness, tears,
are considered to be
for the weak of heart
everything may appear
cool and shiny
yet never reaching
for delicate depths
of shadow and light


there is no need for a desperate escape from loneliness.
this year i lost the one who was my heart. and some friends whom i treasured. i needed to be in silence and not all understood it.
but just because someone is alone and aching, someone isn’t in need of a relationship to fix it.
my heart belongs to sky.
for the time being i hardly talk to anyone except my cousin and parents, children, and some colleagues because work requires it.
and it’s ok. i’ve stopped blaming myself for who i am and how i cope with grief.
those who understand, understand. and i’m deeply grateful to them.


it’s in the haze
of a candle shop
near the lake
where soft-sleeping birds
left grey heartprints
on the dusk of air

to the memory of piano
again and again

closing eyes
to see each awakening

to weep on a shadow wind
moving in the still
of a flame


tears bloomed in the morning, always in the nearness of time yet beyond. linden silence shaped with twinkling nocturnes swayed from lake to air, from air to heart, from heart to echoes of a candleflame, weaving a timbre of your smile through the muffled call of bells.
shadows are deeper than shades, texture of sorrow behind eyes closed subtler than wordless. when hours of balm and breath stream an alchemy of how the world opens on each miracle isle, spirited by flight of evenstar, soul’s meadows rise with slow profusion. a delicate revealing-
revealing how soft steps of snow are and a chamomile wish signing its fragrance on lifelines. nothing’s left without a trace, like presence of skylight filtered through stained bus windows or into small corners of ancient streets sheltering a forsaken art of listening to sonatas.
with aching gravity a gathering of doves beneath orphaned twigs unravels a sylvan mystery. closer to grail of winter than wisdom, further and further from what shatters the ever-dreams.
may it be to merge with arbors is to dance your wind never wondering about destination. may it be because all the mountain forest ever really felt is holding a cloud’s hand near the brook. once stormed starless and dusted of smoke, but reciting a summer scripture to our fireflies.
in a house of moon and tender mist love is rooted in what i cannot utter. a solitude slumbering in amaranth leaves, an infinity awakening to walk, only soft-winged. the constant verb of sharing heart with your sky even when lanterns are off and your presence on earth is a memory.




i will be with you



veiled in sun
deepening the wind
fields dream of your dream
when you held a planet in your palm
and grass exhaled april cotton stars.
when i roamed your smile
sheltering blossoms of dawn
around each miracle of sylvan form
and cloud windows were open
to whisper only sonata sky


here, there, everywhere

there’s something
too beautiful about mountains
that could begin and end
in the sanctum of silence
but it never does.
the way deep-sky stories
quietly reflect
piano mist and reveries
of butterfly nebulas.
defying the notion of time,
erasing a million miles
into his dusky smiles


and his melody whispered
a hidden path of dreams,
of ancient earth yet winged.
reminding of first snow harbingers
and soft swan apparitions,
from which you don’t return
without having faith in everythingb-6378_phixr