Horizons falling from a home of elasticity
to a heath far beyond our pastures,
moving around the hallowed disk
of eternity, floating in an immeasurable
breath of great reluctance
like the whirlpool of Hope spinning
gasping, drowning before glimpses
of a night brighter than a day,
a valley higher than the sun,
only to sink and drown.
When miracles aren’tenough
and saints are pinned to the dust of the
interminable road, plowing the loss of
all that was and could have been
in a realm of hazy expectations,
exhilarations, and jubilations
searching for the doors
to enter to the immortal moors
with shaking hands and mousy feet
that fail to hold the swollen heart.
Persepolis is covered with a veil
of tears.
