This poem was found like an orphan at the door of my consciousness;

 

 

He says his name is "Chair" ;

 

I hate the art of war,

And the cunning craft of compromise,

And anything that moves too much or too fast,

Or rests like a blasphemist.

I have laughed and cried,

And I "Saw that it was good".

But never learned to unbreak a heart,

Or bring a memory to now,

Or redeem the expanse of innocence.

Not even to persuade the "I" to move toward a "Goal".

I can only sink with the ship,

Fall with the plane,

Die with the dead,

Get carried away in the carrier of time,

And watch it very carefully sitting in a chair.

I am the chair.

When the woman pushes with pain,

I guess it's just polite to be born.

"You have never lived", you might say.

But take note that universe is old,

And life might be a distraction,

And who can say that fireworks

Are more impressive than the night behind

Or bangs are bigger than the silence in between?

I sit like a chair,

And if anything important comes up,

I will let you know.

 

 

Iman Fani