The scorpions of the clock are still rotating

within the smoke in your room.

I remember the distressed cooler sound and the man Ran in the dark.

The streets are still shouting.

The pine is no longer here, neither the old water,

just the newspapers that wriggling in the gray shade of people

and the waiting swings have fallen asleep

under the dust for years.

The Father did not Kill The Sohrab; you said.

We wanted to walk through the 30Tir to Vesal Streets and make the city white,

just like when we walked away from the Faculty of Fine Arts and looked at that wall that never bleaches.

The wind blows the window in the summer and the lonely moon looks like a bird that could not fly,

slightly above the brightness of our streetlight.