I am lost in your face, in your lost eyes. The drunk and the madman inside me
take a liking to each other.
They sit down on the ground together.
Look at this mess of a life
as the sun looks fondly into ruins.
With one glance many trees grow from a single seed. Your two eyes are like a Turk born in Persia. He is on a rampage, a Persian shooting Turkish arrows. He has ransacked my house, so that no one lives here anymore, just a boy running barefooted all through it.
Your face is a garden that comes up where the house was. With our hands we tear down houses and make bare places. The moon has no desire to be described. No one needs this poetry. The loose hair strands of a beautiful woman
do not have to be combed.
Adam A. Azim 