By Gheysar Aminpour
They are not costumes
So I wear off my body.
They are not poems
So I put in strings of speech.
They are not yells
That I stick out from the throat of my spirit.
My pains are untold.
My pains are hidden.
My pains
Although are not like the pains of the present people
They are the pains of the present people.
The people, the wrinkle of whose sleeves
The people, the color on whose skins
The people, whose names
The old cover of whose birth certificates
Hurt.
But for me
All the bones of my being
The simple moments when I sing
Hurts.
The arc of my spirit
The well worn shoulders of my windiness
Back of My heart's shelterlessness
Scapular of my pretentious cries
Arms of my poetry sense
Are all wounded.
Thin wounds, where?
Love wounds, where?
This persisting desire!
The pains that you know
The pains that you don't know
The pains at the home
The pains of this old red dome.
Pain is all the color and smell of
The flower of my existance
Pain is not my soul.
Pain is real.
I am his imagination.
How should I call him?
