I was never shy, not once, not ever,
A brazen soul, bound by silence never.
Blessing or flaw, who can truly tell?
Yet my bare heart rings like a solemn bell.
I’d rather wounds than silence cold,
For truth, though sharp, is richer than gold.
With mirrors and storms, I danced unmasked,
In daring shadows, my spirit basked.
"No" was no chain, and "Yes" no snare,
Each word a voyage, a breath of air.
Life to some is a pale refrain,
But I sought its fire, though it brought me pain.
With bare hands I held its burning core,
Unshy, unyielding, forever seeking more.
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 5:48 AM UTC
In this waning world bereft of brilliance, among a mass of millions be known;
Choose to strike bold & boast strength, beyond heaven's pavilions be known.
Lesser souls of hollow words be ****** by comfort’s quiet chain;
For greatness is tribunal through trial, loss, and pain.
When fleeting minds bow swift to ease and shun the steeper climb,
Stand firm against the skeptic tide, the steadfast path shall be thine.
Though doubt may poison wells as defeat cast thy skies in fear,
Clench thy crimson fists and rise—till heights unknown draw near.
Consider me not a phantom nor prophet, for I too have felt the blade;
I speak not from the summit, but the ascent that I've almost made.
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 1:50 PM UTC
I was buried in Mount Savalan—
With eyes wide open, sealed in a coffin;
Within the pitch black coffin, laid I— beneath the bright white shroud, stood you.
I was buried in Mount Savalan—
The caves hold their breath in a prayer of stone; The hushed mist, a holy incense;
The lake, a mirror for none but the skies, reflecting he who never forgets.
I was buried in Mount Savalan—
The shepherds carry the summit in their stride, moving like shadows across the scree;
Their songs, the salt of the earth, their hands, gnarled roots of the slope.
Savalan is buried inside us all—
burrowed into souls as water once carved the summit's stones;
His peaks forged in ancient roots—I welcome his dust to gnaw on my bones.
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 8:42 AM UTC
Hasret, Hasrat, حسرت— quite the word
which has spread across the Oriental realm;
A word whose effects can never be replicated
nor described by its Occidental counterpart, "Longing, Desire;"
The latter are simple means to state one's want,
the former, portrays us behind the locked doors of tomorrow,
its key stuck in the throat, as one chokes on yesteryears' tears,
or swallows words left unsaid.
To see what beauties the world can offer through your screen,
yet unable to reach out towards them;
To hear the voices of newfound love from intangible plateaus,
that which we call social platforms, barred behind a decade's salary
of a plane ticket, to witness the greatness of your favorite artist
from up close- "No! Never! you live amongst savages!
Do you live under a rock? Have you not been watching the news since residing in the womb?
You were fated to drown in sanctions— your so called sophistication is a delusion of sub-human nature!"
the average man of the West roars gallantly, with his trembling fingers upon a keyboard, ascertaining his superiority.
"Wow! A Westerner has replied to your post! Lucky you! Invite him over to the country and show him around!"
remarks the average man of the East, bedazzled by, frankly, nothing but the color of his passport;
He does not recognize the strange shapes on my screen
strung together to insult ancient heritage.
At the end of the day, his colorful passport, fancy accent and bright skin tone, gets him what he wants— no reason to understand,
or delve into the roots of "Hasret"
For Hasret is not learned in comfort,
nor spoken among silver spoons;
It is lived behind closed borders,
where the key turns not in the door,
but churns in the throat.
Apr 21
Apr 21, 2026 at 9:58 PM UTC
He was no good at handicraft, let alone tailoring;
yet never had he sewn his gaze so sharply, so precisely,
upon a girl of such elegance—
luminous, warm with womanhood,
demanding to be loved with gentleness.
He knew then how little he possessed—
no silks to drape her, no gold for her wrists to grace,
no craft refined enough to earn her gaze;
only a quiet longing, clutched in hands unfinessed.
And still, with nothing fit to offer,
he bore a pomegranate heart—
a thousand-ruby crown;
Each seed burning brighter,
at the thought of adorning her jeweled presence.
Apr 21
Apr 21, 2026 at 5:08 PM UTC
Willingly, I scorched myself into the shape of mold,
A foolish act of affection, brazen and bold.
Shaped wretch aplenty, beautifully cast,
Oblivious that bliss shall never last.
Left shattered & torn with no sense of self,
Charred by the ingrate soul in need of help.
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 10:01 AM UTC
My beloved;
They do not know, that if I call your name—
In the blink of an eye, abandoning all that is sane,
You unfold your wings and fly with haste,
Oh so eager to embrace with such devastating grace!
Like the *Quqnus to her chicks;
Softly, gently, ferociously and voraciously.
Just as tales of old portray,
Lest you crack in an affectionate fray,
My delicate porcelain of pining!
Apr 16
Apr 16, 2026 at 4:56 AM UTC
I come from Saturn,
That which has a halo;
That plain of poppies,
which tells tales of the *Sarbadars' honors and heartfelt feelings.
It is mid-July— and finally the height of summer!
I come from Saturn,
from *Kayvan;
I come from the unwritten line of the silent self,
from the seventh square of this chessboard;
Arriving with no soldiers nor sound; Naught but a bleeding drum!
Where all guns are silenced and suppressed;
I come from the lineage of a spirit
Whom has words left unsaid,
And a thirst for the guillotine;
I come from the shifting face of the *Sayyaara and stars!
Speak in whispers,
for here—
voices appear from the well-hidden, silent stones
at the edge of the graveyard!
Apr 14
Apr 14, 2026 at 7:30 PM UTC
Carved of earth before names were spoken,
An oak heart sealed from the first unbroken
It drank the breath of vanished kings,
Held silk like sighs, and crowned-off things.
Not wood
no
But a chest that learned to keep
What even time could not but weep.
It stands now
Not fallen, not erased
But placed…
Where decree and tenderness are interlaced.
For nothing here is unspoken or stray
Even dust has been told where to lay.
A man once passed
But he did not see with eyes alone
He saw the light that exile had sewn.
He touched it
As one who remembers before remembering,
As one who hears what has no uttering.
And he raised it
Not weight, but trust
Step by step from silence and rust.
Each stair a verse, each breath a name,
Each motion wrapped in a hidden flame.
For a girl
Her hair
A night unraveling from decree,
Falling softly into what used to be.
She washed her days in thinning streams,
Rinsing herself of borrowed dreams.
Not to be clean
But to return
To the origin for which hearts burn.
Each thread she folds… remembers.
Each crease… testifies.
Not of ruin
But of a glory that veils its rise.
The dresser listens
No
It bears witness.
It hears between the breaths she hides,
It tastes the sea her silence rides.
“She names this enough,”
The old wood sighs within,
“But oceans like hers do not begin… nor end… in skin.”
O turning wheel that crushes pride,
That seats the kings where the broken abide
Do you not see?
This narrowing door
this thinning air
Is where the Beloved waits… laid bare.
For spiritual poverty is not hunger alone
It is the stripping to be known.
It is the cup emptied of “mine”
So it may tremble with the Divine.
Then
A night without signature…
A knock without sound…
A presence that entered without being found.
No hand extended
Yet giving arrived.
No voice descended
Yet something survived.
Mercy came…
Not as a gift but as unveiling.
Mercy came…
And the unseen stopped veiling.
A coat
Green
But not of this earthly green,
Rather of gardens never seen.
It carried the scent of a covenant old,
Of secrets neither bought nor sold.
She held it
And something in her breath collapsed,
As if the distance itself had lapsed.
Not cloth
But nearness worn,
Not warmth
But a soul reborn.
In that moment
Even the silent wood… remembered how to weep.
No kingdom returned,
No past restored
Yet the room… could no longer afford
To call itself poor.
For what descended was not relief
But knowledge dressed as brief belief.
Contentment spread
Not loud, not wide
But like a sea that forgets its tide.
And on her tongue
Without a word
The taste of something never heard.
So sad, sad dresser?
Yes… and no.
For it has seen the low made high,
And watched the unseen pass it by.
Yet now
Within one hidden space,
Beyond all form, beyond all place
It keeps a secret, softly planned:
That what arrives without a hand…
Was written first
Before the hand.
Apr 14
Apr 14, 2026 at 1:59 AM UTC
Idle hands are the devil's workshop?
Idle lips his mouthpiece?
I will, I have to— I must stop;
Tear down its very foundations,
Bit by bit, piece by piece,
With my chipped teeth, severed limbs
And cracked bones, shattered soul.
Make a name for myself I must,
Carry out God's plan—
For it is he whose visions I trust
I will, I have to— I must
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 11:30 AM UTC