The womb of art

It appears that I’m back,

several centuries;

to realize why Farsi poets had such a passion.



It seems I’m here to once again taste

that flavor; where mundane and

divine are delicately spreading; the nuances

as in Isfahan carpets.



It looks like the tune is sending me

as time machine back to the birth of secret

of nightingale to a rose; manifests

at the blast of the moment



It tells that I must come again,

to pass the bridge 33; the resemblance

of Kinvat.



It seems I have word no more,

to compare “Here” and “There”, and

finally got muttered.

Hotel Abbasi

19. 09. 2011.

Isfahan, Iran