By Sarah Samarbaf
Have you ever laid your palm to
the wall of an elusive dream
before it dissolved to the first
manifest firmness of light?
Have you tasted failure, poured from
the ashen dregs of night, that bitter
liquor slides over your tongue, distilled
from the repressed memories’ wine?
How many times have you drowned
in the rain of a film, living
a vivid dream in the first row, while
your young legends refused to grow old?
Suffered of their traumas, I
ask myself: how many nights
did you die, only to wake up
with eyes, already rehearsing drowse?
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