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Poem

The ink of your red heart
Sips the flowers, 
Besieges the olive 
In the iris of the eyes, 
Flirts the tunes
Hugs the minarets, 
And complains to the night
The sighs of sadness, 
And you are a dream
Asleep in its silence
Under the eyelids …
Has the evening glow of passion
Found no sleep
Under your eyelashes, 
And have not been wounded the eyelashes 
By the tears of rain-laden clouds? 
Who are you? 
I will ask the rhyme
About you, and the arts, 
And the demon of sorrows, 
Are you a lost letter? 
In the lexicon of the centuries? 
Or are you the beginning
For the revolution of madness? 
Your imagination is a cloud
In the darkness of the eyes
And your soul is a talisman
Jailed in my ring…
And my compassionate boat 
Don’t ask me who I am? 
Nor suppose my silence is jest, 
I am the silent call
And a sigh in the last tunes, 
And a silver tear
On your cheek
Flows in rapture…
My planet is premonitions
And my world is doubts, 
And my whisper is poems
Their title …is none, 
And my kiss is sacred, 
Granddaughter of the boughes…
So who am I? 
And who will I be? 
My story is a legend
Inscribed in silence…

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