[Thought, not Spoken]:

             “He’s a song I sing to myself
             under silence and sirens.”

A martyred soul
meeting his reflection,

splintered shards
barefoot in the sand

outside Tehran
facing in the same direction:

Sweating funerary mouths
mourning shared misunderstanding,

thirst opens their grave
as jackals surround them.

Awash in expression,
two souls—the same face—fall in

a gash in flesh’s passion
whose hole consumes men,

closing its eye at 3 AM
swallowing silence, guarding

heaven’s gate so slain angels
can lay under paradise

panting pain, cultivating
their hanging garden.