Sarvenaz
Heraner
A painter
To Sirak Melkonian
A painter once called me
a rare jewelry,
While I, on the verge of
self mockery
Assuming myself belong to
an extinct generation
With no hope in any
miraculous temptation
A gradual decadence in
deep soot of routines
Hopelessly cornered in
stagnant scenes
With no one to look up to
Or no willing volunteer
to rescue
But solitude is part of a
rare gem’s history
Out of question seems the
feeling of self-pity
Yes a painter once called
me a rare jewelry
So I, trying to adapt myself to this fascinating theory
----------------------------------------------------
(from collection of poems: Tears for Fears)
Justice
Justice was dragged toward scaffold,
Executed for being fair, handcuffed and blindfold.
His few followers, sobbing, moaning,
"No! give him another chance to survive!", begging.
A war kid with the memory of her parents' lovemaking,
Under the brick avalanche of a bomb, crushing.
A lonely lady, a castaway, so fragile, so innocent
Holding her deserted heart, looking for a settlement.
A hungry bag of bones,
Dreaming about a grain of rice, he owns.
An employee victimized by prejudice and conspiracy.
A soldier with indelible wound on his psyche.
The executioner hit the stool under Justice's firm feet,
And He, embraced the angel of death, so tender, so sweet.
Barbwire
I’m
the permanent resident of Limbo,
Helplessly
driven between my Id and Ego.
I’m
the barb wired victim of destiny and desire,
I’m
a bitter player, trapped in a series of satire.
My
ambition, my wish, my fantasies,
Seem
so near, I could stretch hand and grab at ease.
Like
that yellow, full moon in the feast of stars,
Though
it’s so far-off my reach, beyond my endless wars.
Jan 30, 2004