“At last, we all die with a lie”
I heard someone say
Rotting to dust in the dark dungeons
of nostalgia; nothing left of my lies
how then I wonder, will I escape this ado
It is perhaps truer to say: at last, everyone cries
but for a different cause
One of the melancholies of existence
one for its ceaseless yearning
one of beauty’s approbation
One cries of an ill-timed farewell
one grieves for the splendor of the Fall
One cries for the fallen hero in a story
one for the betrayal of all
that is good by another
One cries for the impossible
How to die well? How to live right?
I cry when a promise persists to the end
when the wild struggles to endure
when the opportunity is lost to summon good
I sob in tormented eyes
of every starving child
Behrooz Ghorbanian