The Revolution Is Futile Near Cemeteries Noise

The revolution is futile near cemeteries noise (To the oldest of me, of course, my son Ahmad in my birthday) Introduction Cut out my soul as shirt Wrenching the heart arteries Boot strap of your shoes The poem The patched soul with raw dreams And soft body which was stained at cicatrixes of war And crowded broken heart as falling leaves trampled a track These are my only signals refer to my being In a room like storm dreaming of blowing Oh, my baby Allowed me to say Tonight and objectively I couldn't do anything Because what happened Happened always And what didn't happen Didn't happen And we always improve toward the worst