Some where to the edges of respiration
Fixing the wires of a sitar
You move on the path of silence
Streaming a bit of music
All the selected paths turn around as mats
And lock the doors
A single song

Draining the ocean on its wounds
Slithers a tear of grief
As big as the sky
Under the curtains of eyeballs
Raked with a thorn of hope
The cadavers of chances pile up
In the waiting looks stretched as elastic wires
The high ways shrink

The history moves on
Decks the papers with
Outside wall paintings
The hand of clock moves on
Carrying the frozen dead bodies
The experience that never reaches the history

Remains amid the dream of a desert
Banned by time