The hands of poetry are empty
but its mouth is full of words
that no one buys
Inevitably, it sells meaning to the air
It sleeps hungry
And yet
it survives
on scraps of thought
شعر زنده میماند
دست های شعر خالی
،اما دهانش پر از واژه
،بی خریدار
ناگزیر معنا را به هوا می فروشد
گرسنه می خوابد
با این حال
زنده می ماند
با خرده های فکر
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Author:
soheil khodaparasti (
Offline) - Published: December 22nd, 2025 07:05
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
Such an apt description in such vivid images a fave
Thank you so much! It is wonderful to hear that the description stood out.
You are most welcome
It is as it is.
Absolutely, some things speak for themselves.
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