در راهرو؛ قبل از احساس کردن کمی ناامیدی

تقریبا تمام راه رو دوییده بودم و اونقد موقع حرف زدن نفس نفس زدم که
که به نظر می اومد هل شدم و دست و پام رو گم کردم. سرد بود. اون راهرو بلند
که از این سر تا اون سرش با ماشین یه سه چار دقیقه ای طول می کشید رو دوییده بودم.
گفتم: " بیرون داره برف میاد. البته خیلی نه. ولی فکر کنم تا صبح سنگین بشه."0
مردم میومدن و میرفتن و تو اون شلوغی هی تنه می زدن.
آب دماغم رو پاک کردم و سعی کردم یه مقدار به خودم بیام.
-"تا اینجا که اومدم فکر میکنم که یه معجزه شده...
خوب میدونی! اینجوریه دیگه؛ یه وقتایی بود که فکر میکردم جور دیگه ای هم میشد که باشه.
یعنی همه اینا یه جور دیگه اتفاق می افتاد و من الان احتمالا خونم نشسته بودم و
احساس میکردم که آقای خودم و نوکر خودمم و اینجوریا!
شاید اصلا یه جور دیگه؛ یه شکل دیگه بودم و تو هم اینجوری مثل آدمایی که ازشون یه سوال بی سروته پرسیده باشن و
تو جوابش گیر کردن تو چشام زل نمی زدی."0

با یه لبخند که به نظر بی منظور بود دستش رو تو جیبش کرد و گفت:0
-"خوب..."0
-"خوب...اینکه...حالت چطوره؟"0
"چرا حالا اینقد هل شدی؟"0-

شب همان روز

کلید انداختم و آروم اومدم تو. خونه تاریک بود؛
با این حال چراغی روشن نکردم.
خواب بودی و نمی خواستم از خواب بیدارت کنم.
صدای خرخرت رو که شنیدم خیالم راحت شد که بعد مدتها خوابیدی.
دودستی بالشتو بغل کرده بودی.
تو رو هیچ وقت اینجوری ندیده بودم.

خیس خیسم؛ بارون بدی میاد.
چتر با خودم نمی برم؛ می دونی که.
ساکت نشستم بالا سرت و نیگات کردم.
اتاق تاریکه. تنها چیزی که کمک می کنه تا ببینمت
نور لامپ کوچیکیه که جلوی پنجره روشنه.
خوابی و این منو آروم می کنه.
بعد اون شیش هفت روزی که نخوابیده بودی؛
ضعیف شده بودی. چشمات گود رفته بود. ترسیده بودم.
تو رو هیچ وقت اونجوری ندیده بودم.

انگار تمام خستگیهامو ور داشته بودم و با خودم آورده بودم.
وقتی نشستم و داشتم نیگات می کردم پلکهام سنگین شده بودن؛
از نوک بینیم؛ از موهام؛ نوک انگشتام آب می چکید.
تمام تنم انگار پر زخم بود؛ زخمی که فقط اون اتاق می تونست التیامش بده.
ساکت بودم؛ باور کن که ساکت نشسته بودم.
نیگات می کردم؛ طوری که انگار واسه آخرین بار دارم می بینمت.
آروم نفس می کشیدم. می ترسیدم بیدارت کنم...تو به این خواب احتیاج داشتی.
خودمو هیچ وقت اینجوری ندیده بودم.

خونه انگار که با تو خوابیده بود.
تو داری خواب می بینی؛ خونه ساکته؛ من تو رو می بینم؛ ساکتم.
سعی می کردم هیچ سر و صدایی نکنم؛ آرزو می کردم از چیزی هم صدایی در نیاد.
سایه سیاه خواب همه چی رو پوشونده بود.
گریه های اون شب رو یادم میاد.
آروم و بی صدا؛ بالشت رو جلو صورتت گرفته بودی؛
می گفتی: "من که گریه نمی کنم..."
گفتم: "اگه گریه نمی کنی چرا چشمات خیسه؟!"
اشکات رو پاک کردی و هیچی نگفتی.
فکر نمی کردم سوالم اینجوری هر دوتا مون رو برنجونه.
خونه انگار که با تو خوابیده بود.
منم همونجا خوابیدم.
رو همون صندلی...

از خونه که زدم بیرون صبح شده بود.
تو نبودی.0

The Clockwork Serenity

this is the time of sun.
this is sunrise | he stands in front of me.
i sit on the ground, i think i have some wounds on my knees.
it hurts and i can't stand.
the bright sun still shines,
and he still stands in front of me.
he lights his cigar or something.

he yells : "O' God, please give him brain,
and give me money."
this time his sentence deosn't look like a joke for me.
i'm just looking at him.
i'm just thinking about what he said.

this isn't the time of sun.
this is sunset | he isn't here anymore.
smell of his cigar is everywhere.
it sits on my hair, on my cloths, on my wounds.
i still sit on the ground, my arms are still open and tired,
and i'm not sure there isn't anybody out there to help me.

Be Happy If You Can

in the feast of friends, she looks straight into my eyes,
i drink and don't pay any attention to her.
this is not what i want.
my friends know who she is,
and this matter bothers me so much.
she wants to live with me, because she thinks i'm always happy,
and i just want to escape from the party,
because i finally know that she is a professional prostitute.

it's too late, she said yes.

The Cashier

February 15
A million stars glow in the night, all my neighbours sleep,
and i'm going shopping, i'm walking, at 00:34 am.
nobody knows why i decided to go shopping late at night.
when i desired to see her once again, i picked up the phone,
and dialled her number,...
she was there. she said everything is ready for our visit.
i'm wearing my overcoat, i'm so happy, tired & wishful.
i only think about her and her weaked voice.

February 2nd
when i arrived the store, she was sitting lonely behind the cash,
and smoked her cigar. queitly, with no expectance in her eyes.
i said: "hey !" and she turned back and said: "hey dad ! where the hell were you?

Rooms No. 24 & 25

please be quiet dear psychotics. doctor will be here for a minute.
but control yourself for awhile. he sleeps in the next room and...
...hey you son of the bitch ! hey you ! are you listening to me ?
shit ! give me that poison !
give me that !

Redemption In A Cafe, Or Someplace Else

"Look into my eyes !"
the poor girl looks into his eyes, with so much fear & love.
"this is just what i want..."
"what do you want from me?"
"your heart, your soul, your virginity !"
the poor girl cries so hard and asks herself:
"where is the best place to hide ?, what is the finest way,
to feel my life once again ?"
the tall and blond man wears his glasses
and asks his final question:
"what do you think about it ?"

the sky is cloudy, and it seems that it isn't a good decision,
to spend your lifetime under the rain.

The Featherhouse

don't waste your time anymore.

i never let you down, i never make you cry,
but this place is my only birthplace,
and i never let you tear it down.
there is a hidden place in my backyard,
i lay you down in there,
i make you free.
let me carry you to your new birthplace.
sleep silently and don't say any words,
and i'm sure you won't !

F !

Floating on mercury,
...what the hell are you doing up there ?


words of : Fouad Amiri
artworks by : Arash Khosronejad

The Sweeper

the sweeper stands out there, with the infected bandaged eyes,
with the long besom in his hands, with black & dirty working overcoat.
he stands in the middle of the square, the square with tall bared trees and flaming grass.
from my window, i see him walks hobblely. he talks with those fairies, quietly.

he is not a worker, but he works, he is not a scavenger, but he scavenges, he is not a thinker, but he always thinks, he is not a sweeper, but he sweeps... ...he always sweeps, he always sweeps.

in the middle of nowhere, he stands with the long besom in his hands,
with black & dirty working overcoat. he is a sweeper and he sweeps the square,
the square that placed near our place of working.
he waits for someone, for his woman who will come to his way.
he always cries, and he hopes that his woman isn't a sweeper.

All the Cold Cups Of Tea !

that was my second time i saw her face,
the first time was when i stood at her doorway,
in the stairway,
some days ago.
she brought a cup of tea for me, when i was sitting on her sofa,
somewhere in her living room.
i wasn't thinking of anything, i was just thinking about why she was naked.
i'm staring to her face, and she still thinks i'm her man...
...but i'm not.
i'm just a postman.
my tea gets cold.

3 Stories About The Despoileds & The Deads

vision no 1 : Despoliation
all those birds, despoiled.
those sick cats couldn't stay.
until the darkness of night comes,
they will disappear in the trash of the city.
traitors sleep comfortably.



vision no 2: Cracks Of The Stone
i don't know !
do you know ?
how to learn a child about how we can plan a perfect suicide,
to end our life.
and how is the way of telling the children
"why he commited suicide, because of his meeting with the day,
but that shiny sun stuck behind the mountains"

i don't know !
do you know ?



vision no 3 : Story Of My Friend, About How He Died
i can remember his birth,
in a crowded place,
when i lost myself.
when he had a smile on his face,
and didn't think about why he couldn't see me.
he said hello to the world and came out from my head.
that was in the beginning of the night.

and now i don't know what was the time,
when he died, when he passed away,
without any goodbye, without any farewell.
this is the way how i feel loneliness,

did he think we should be closer ?

Your Reincarnation

i sit behind my desk,
with a pencil and a paper in my hand.
i shocked about a new story,
about a new event,
that came to my home.
every story has a hero,
or heroine.
and this story has no hero,
and of course a heroine.
this tale, is true, or maybe not...
but in the absence of all heros,
a shadow lives in darkness.
nobody knows him,
everyone desires to unmask his face.
but he grips it so tight.

angels never send any message from you,
all the ways to his home are dead-end.
how can i draw your face ?

all the brightest things left, and nothing remains,
more mysterious men will come to my way.