Thirteen.Eighty.Six

Do i need to post an entry in this space,
in the last hours of Thirteen Eighty Five ? do i ?
do i need some new words to say I Love You ? or something else ?
how do i feel this pain, this love, this life ?
how should i carry this body from here to there ?
and is there anybody to help me without any worry ?
i love these moments and i hate this passing time too.
still i have some problems with it,
will i solve this one ?...i don't know.
all my good things wait for me,
and all my bad memories hide behind someone,
or something that i can't recognize.
this is the way how i feel unluckiness.
Thirteen Eighty Five waits for my smile,
but i can't do that right now.
that was not good and still i can't forget.
i'm so proud of about what will happen in my life,
what i will gain and what i will be.
good or bad, this is the way how we live.
this is life, and it decides for us.

Thirteen Eighty Five wants to be part of my memories,
i'll never forget about what i gained or lost,
and i'll be the most important part of my life, ...if i could.

Thirteen Eighty Five left my room, and i'm waiting for the new year to come...

............................................................................
Special thanks to Fouad Amiri, for all of his supportings, specially through these last hours of 1385.

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?

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.