Writings and Poems: Several Pieces of Poetry in Silence of a Friend - 2002-07-02

Writings and Poems: Several Pieces of Poetry in Silence of a Friend - 2002-07-02. Suddenly, time stops for a moment for an angel in the form of an eternal child to descend to earth and embrace a fabric doll. The father is a tall man and the mother a spring of boundless love. Time flows like an agitated river, the fabric doll becomes worn, and the threads of its dress lose color. Time passes like a roaring flood, but childhood beliefs remain clear and bright. Time passes like the wind; the tall father bends down, and the mother sits in the depth of her boundless love. Time drips drop by drop; the eternal child still squeezes the old doll in his arms and smiles at us just like the first day, the very first day we embraced him. You heard 'Eternal Child' by Mahasti Shahrokhi, a writer and poet residing in France. Now we listen to the delightful piece 'I Remember This' by Mahmoud Motaghedi. The scent of your smile is still with me; sometimes, all my years collapse, and suddenly a storm comes from the shores of your eyes. A small song pulls the trees to the forehead of the wind, and I drive in search of your hands in the sun and sand. The seasons still mean something in a cup of coffee. Let me throw a red flower towards you, for these restless words stand between your beauty and a silent expectation. I think you will touch this night rain one day with your fingers. I think of love; this is what I remember. Now we listen to a delightful poem by M. Faryar, residing in America: The moon was asleep when you closed your eyelashes on autumn, so that you would not see the sorrow of the leaf and the passage of thirsty horses in empty sunsets. A green pain in the hands worried about the repetition of days twisted your image in the mirror and hid your pains in the boredom of dawn until the sea birds, in the simple essay of your gaze, find their way again from the crack of your solitude to the seven skies of your imagination. That night I cried sadly; the city smelled of autumn. You drank water from the spring, a warm voice spread in the city, and in thirst, you led the tired horses to the end of the game. Then, along with the sea, you became a word and passed through the clear glass with a gaze full of windows. And Ali Shariati Kashani, a poet residing in France, writes in the occasion of the silence of a friend: One hand on the dagger and one hand on the sword, with existence and being from 'no' and an epic tone richer than the forest and more fruitful than light, from the secret and mystery of 'nothing', from the 'cold city' and from the fever and shivers of oppression, from the hell of the folly of the cowardly men, 'he clenched his teeth in the tired liver and left', he roared forever and went.