I see the revolutionary in me falling
like autumnal dust mixing in the dew
on petals of flowers shriveling in the night.
And I feel the mindless rage of all the summers
that lived within me going barren, as if every
speck of soil on the mountains, every pyramidion
of the history I reflected upon, became suddenly
abandoned by the nomad, like a desert left behind!
Is a revolution a curse? Is its blessing only a futile idea?
When the crush of time has stoned you, and
you are meant to be a ghost out of all embodiments
living without any justice for your primordial existence
And the fallacy gets louder than thunder and lightning;
And the rain reminds you of all the pain which never
washes away. And you leave all the signals of your
convictions to the distant stars. And you ask of love:
Is there any equal spring where it meets, where it
flows out of the horizon onto every street, embellishing
the heart with such gold, that never seemed to be!
Is memory so seamless that it can hope we meet one eternity?
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