“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

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