We Shouldn’t Name It
We shouldn’t name it
the sea already carries too many.
Every wave arrives
with a forgotten address.
We shouldn’t claim it
the wind will not sign our papers.
It bends around our mouths
and drifts away.
We shouldn’t hold it
what moves will not be kept.
Light on the wall
passes through us
and remains.
The house is black
There is no house
whether on this side or that side
the house is the road
a quiet naming of light
Your name moves with it
carrying light without shape
without destination
only the moments gathered on the way
Every beauty imagined
inside hardship and pain
carrying light again
home when walking
Do not coin me
do not hammer me
let the wind lift me
into the song of leaves
Close
close to you
where the road waits
unanswered
The Weight of Light
Salt with the sea—
a secret they never finish telling.
Wind with the chairs—
old friends who no longer speak.
Light with the wall—
each crossing leaves a wound of gold.
Silence with time—
two mirrors facing each other.
And I, passing—
see nothing,
yet everything sees me.
Through the Glass
A face behind the glass
belongs to no one.
It drifts—
years hiding in the fog.
The sea listens.
Somewhere a child learns to walk,
somewhere an old person forgets the ground—
and the wind carries who is who.
I look through and through, step by step,
road after road,
and I write to you—
the one still moving
with the light.
How Far
The wind came late,
smelling of stone and rain.
It touched the walls,
then forgot my name.
Restless leaves turned,
a voice almost formed—
how far,
how far to return.
A tear broke the dust,
no sound,
only the hush
of things that wait.
Somewhere a moth
entered the light,
and the night
closed its eyes.
You Never Walk Alone
When the street forgets your step,
the wind still knows your weight.
Even the silence hums
with the pulse of your breath.
Each path recalls
those who once crossed its skin—
their echoes stitched to yours,
their dreams turning in your stride.
What walks beside you
is older than all names—
the tide, the dust,
the quiet hand of light.
Less Than Human
we wait past time
among the engines and glass
where names become numbers
and the sun is stored in code
those who build the world
carry its bones on their backs
their shadows pour over asphalt
and disappear into the night
from the vials, doors close
tired faces drift between seas
their lips cracked with salt
still, they walk—
hands of the newborn sky
touch their brows with light
keep walking
up through the bricks that cage the soul.
I Am Marginalized
I am marginalized as an international artist,
walking between lands that never arrive.
I am marginalized as an international artist,
my studio is a bag of wind and paper.
I am marginalized as an international artist,
no walls, no grants, no promised return.
I am marginalized as an international artist,
each step unpaid, each note unsent.
I am marginalized as an international artist,
the sea knows me better than the city.
I am marginalized as an international artist,
my borders are invisible yet sealed.
I am marginalized as an international artist,
still the work grows like grass through stone.
I am marginalized as an international artist,
still I walk, still I write, still I am.
Finding Ershadi at the Red Light
A red light held the street still.
Wind brushed the dust across the lanes.
A face appeared in the next car
as if carried there by silence.
The city paused around that moment.
No script. No stage. Only breath between two windows.
Light softened on a traveler of this land,
a presence shaped by roads already walked.
The director saw a story waiting.
Not written. Not asked for. Simply there.
A quiet invitation from the world
to follow an unseen path.
The wind shifted again.
Engines murmured.
The light changed.
Something began without knowing its name.
Look Back
Wind touched the back of the neck
as the path narrowed behind the hill.
A faint echo rose from old stones,
calling without a voice.
Steps paused in the dust.
Shadows of earlier days gathered quietly.
Nothing returned in full shape,
yet something waited in the blur.
Turning was a small permission.
To face what drifted far
to meet what once was carried
to see what followed unseen.
The road ahead stayed open.
The road behind breathed lightly.
Both moved in the same wind,
holding a question that would not close.
God Has Wings
On the mountain a trace appeared
a call the wind forgot
a breath rising out of stone
I heard its name and walked.
The thyme scent of night
settled quietly in my chest
my weariness carried meaning
as if the road itself held me.
A bird was born inside me
from the warm line of a tear
its wings small, its voice deep
beating to reach the light.
The river whispered its arrival
and as the water cleared
I understood that every step was a mountain
and every mountain held a waiting face.
At dawn the dark crumbled
falling back into its silence
my heart opened scar by scar
and suddenly I knew
every god I had met
was as light as a bird.
It had wings
descending from an unseen ridge
lifting the dust of the road
carrying the weight of the heart.
And I learned
as I kept walking
the voice inside a person
the light inside the path
all say one thing
God is flying
while we walk.
How Far
How far the feet have carried the day
how far the day has carried the name
Lands passed like breath on glass
seen, then brushed away
as if the world were only a sleeve of dust
All air
all a song that never admits its singer
all silence learning the shape of sound
A photograph held up to the light
then turned face down
so the mind can keep walking
The traveller becomes a door
then a room
then a key with no lock
What was witnessed stays unspoken
what was unspoken stays alive
A turtle crosses the road
a house moving on four small vows
and the road forgets how to hurry
Half a century turns
and the same slow grammar returns
not as memory
as a living weight
How far, and still returning
the circle closing softly
then opening
as if nothing ended
How Close
Step, turn, step
the city loosens at dusk
under a wide tree
Iron and stone
hold their quiet manners
yet something smiles
Not knowing
moves like a gentle partner
close to the shoulder
The mind asks for proof
the leaves answer with light
then drift on
A gate stays half open
to another kind of street
no map, no claim
After the last turning
not darkness, not certainty
a softer weather
Daily tasks
become bright little signals
sent into air
Step, turn, step
one world leans into another
and does not explain
Dayfire on the windowboard
unbuttons the traveller
A child keeps one amber
where language cannot reach
Thought becomes notes
then ash
Play of light, a waltz
step, turn, step
Everything answers
in the heat between breaths
Dayfire on the windowboard
unbuttons the traveller