I asked the sky, "Where do you end?" I asked the clouds, "When will you rain?" I asked the rain, "Where is your destination?" I asked the sun, "Could you make the day a little cooler?" I asked the moon, "When will you shine?" I asked the dawn, "When will you rise?" I asked the sea, "When will you be restless? When will you be calm?" I asked the cliffs, "Don't you ever grow tired of the waves?" I asked the road, "Where are you taking me?" Each of them remained silent. And I mistook their silence for the absence of an answer. I didn't know that nature never teaches through words. It writes its answers, slowly, through time, into who we become.

3 replies

2 recasts

18 reactions

I’ll Find You in the Beginning [this was written through multiple life cycles]

3 replies

3 recasts

6 reactions

✦ Migration of a magical creature ✦ There are days when the magic grows tired. Not because it stops believing. But because it starts talking to itself. The forest is still green. But it no longer responds to the brush of its wings. The air isn't cold. It is indifferent. And that is the slowest form of tearing. She didn't want to be saved. She only wanted someone to cross the clearing and say that they saw the light too. It is not fury that moves her. It is the echo. The echo of words that used to be a bridge and now are shadows. Perhaps migrating isn't an escape. Perhaps it's remembering that even fantasy needs reciprocity to exist. And when it's gone, the wings don't break from the wind. They tear from the silence.

2 replies

1 recast

11 reactions

حس! شبیه نور است… همیشه راه را نشان نمی‌دهد اما نمی‌گذارد کاملاً گم شوی!

6 replies

1 recast

15 reactions

Presenting: Episode 2: Summer 2026 | Time Slice What if you could take a moment of your day, slice a cross-section of it— And then share it? Free verse poems and artworks I created over the past months. And made a new version onchain.

1 reply

3 recasts

8 reactions

Don’t touch the roses Don’t touch the roses my mother says as I stare longingly at her long arching petals. Mind wandering, my feet bare and dirty planted in the soil as if I am waiting to be watered next.  The putrid smell of compost mixed with my mother’s shampoo wafts into my nostrils.  I feel an ache in the pit of my stomach,  I heard my mother once say that roses are edible.  She continues to water the roses, her clingy pastel dress revealing her fleshy hips. Her sharp voice lashing out between breaths.  The sound is muffled by the cool breeze and hot sun beating down heavily on my face.  Delicate petals hold each other like warm hugs on a Sunday afternoon.  The way she embraces me when friends come to visit.  Multiplied and doubled over exposing fleshy berry like fruit. Rosehips are good for immunity, my mother says. What’s immunity? They protect you, so you won’t get sick.  My throat is scratchy, I wonder if I’ll be watered next.  Pastel hues and fragrant bliss.  The dense feeling of love, building with every moment that passes.  Forgetting myself, I am drawn too close, just to be accosted by the prickly thorns. A drop of blood pools up where skin used to be. Don’t touch the roses! Thorns made to protect, but who will protect me from you. /poetry

1 reply

1 recast

4 reactions

Winter arrived. Stronger than expected. Her heart froze over, and it broke. Exiled in a land that is not her own, in a cold that chills her blood. Her cave today has no way out. Only walls. Only shadow.

4 replies

4 recasts

14 reactions

اشتیاقی که به دیدار تو دارد دل من دل من داند و من دانم و دل داند و من خاک من گل شود و گل شکفد از گل من تا ابد مهر تو بیرون نرود از دل من مولانا

1 reply

1 recast

5 reactions

Intensity is what is born when there is nothing left to save, but you still kneel tired and kiss the floor as if it were the mouth of someone who never loved you. It's love that keeps burning after the world went out. It's waking up every morning knowing that everything is a lie, and yet choosing you again, with the same tenderness with which a suicide chooses the most beautiful rope. The intensity is to write your name on the wall of a room that tomorrow they are going to knock down, and sign it with blood because the ink seems too cold for so much useless heat. It is the last cigarette shared before the end of the universe, the souls reflecting in two reflected pupils who already know that there will be no tomorrow, and yet they look at each other as those who trust that they can do everything. Intensity is the romanticism of the condemned: because deep down, deep down, it is the only thing we have left before nothing devours us in a sigh.

2 replies

2 recasts

8 reactions

برای زیستن دو قلب لازم است قلبی که دوست بدارد قلبی که دوستش بدارند “احمد شاملو”

5 replies

5 recasts

24 reactions

خوابم نمی‌برد و نمی‌برد و باز هم نمی‌برد! یهو یادم اومد مامانم این ساعت‌ها چطور صدام می‌کرد و بغلم می‌کرد🥺 دلم برات خیلی تنگ شده، مامان… کاش این فاصله دیگه تموم بشه❤️💛

10 replies

4 recasts

29 reactions

آخرِ همه‌ی شلوغی‌ها یادت نرود مهم‌ترین آغوشی که باید امن بماند آغوشِ خودت است! خودت را بیشتر دوست داشته باش… و این را هر روز به خودت یادآوری کن💛

6 replies

4 recasts

14 reactions

If I were to take anything from this life to another world, it would definitely be you. Justice for me means: At least in another world, you are much, much closer to me than in the distant...🖤🥀

1 reply

1 recast

6 reactions

I embraced temerity the moment I said "I love you."

1 reply

3 recasts

11 reactions

تنها هنر آدمی شاید همین باشد که بعد از هر فرو ریختن، تکه‌های خودش را جمع کند و اشک‌هایش را پنهان کند و دوباره برای رؤیایی که هنوز نیامده دل ببندد🥺 ما بارها می‌میریم! در نبودن‌ها در رفتن‌ها در شکستنِ اعتمادها… اما عجیب است؛ صبح که می‌شود! باز پنجره را باز می‌کنیم و منتظر نوری می‌مانیم که شایدهمه چیز را عوض کند🌙✨

8 replies

2 recasts

24 reactions