von Razieh Torabi gelesen am 13.06.2023

A beloved friend,
whom I never see.  

A butterfly
who flies against a tornado,
which killed a whole land. 

And the childhood of my grandma,
which is present.
My grandma,
whose brain was in the today's MRI smaller
than in the last one,
last month. 

The spontaneous meeting of my doubted view,
with a since months familiar stranger,
in the role of a professor,
about whose sudden real inner interpretation of my endless doubt, 
about the meaning of
what I was really doing,
by a duodenum externation,
for the very first time,
in an anatomy course,
about which I stay curious forever.
This stranger,
who I leave in short
and miss,
till I die. 

The drop of my tear,
as my mom told me goodbye,
on that dark classroom
on the first day of my kindergarten. 

A chip kiss of mine
on the cheek of a humankind,
holding it for certainly. 

am of an undefinable pain,
of a forever holding Saudade
on a forgotten fleck of a vertical axis
in an absolutely horizontal alarm,
born ;
and have been growing up.  

It doesn't matter anymore,
when I can talk,
as an speech apraxial child,
getting laughed out,
starting to talk for the first time,
with her incurable unhearable voice, 

after a long time passed in the school years,
and still not being able
to articulate her needs, 

her wishes,
her capability
at all.