Laughing in a burning house:
The language of my thinking was on fire.
Thoughts no longer reside in me
maybe this is where danger enters my being.
Silence is a word we have made for the deaf
otherwise, there are no secrets hidden in things.
No one speaks naked, archeologist poets,
unemployed poets, with well-worn words.
What drives us to grab things to write?
What “time” are we born to take back?
Is the death of people, not a warning?
Why do people tie themselves to the
plow of philosophy?
What is reaped on this farm except us, What?
I despise getting wrapped in words
What will save us from this illusion of
-being alive- of this illusion of -dying-?
What does Bird mean?
Of what part of Tree should I speak
so that time does not pass in me?
Laughing in a larger house
that bit by bit loses its tongue to the soil
and like a cloth that is laid on the dead
gets pulled over it.

Shahram sheydayi
translated by Parastoo Anoushahpour