Poetry

Even your name I have doubts about 
and about the trees
about their branches,
if perhaps they are roots
and we have been living
all these years underground.
Who has dislocated the world?
And why are birds circling in our stomachs?
Why does a pill defer my birth?
For years we've been living underground
and perhaps a day in my seventies
I'll be born
and feel that death
is a shirt we all come to put on,
whose buttons we can either fasten
or leave undone...
A man may roll up his sleeves
or he might...
I am the captive man's conjectures
about the seasons behind the wall. 
"Garous Abdolmalekian "

Passionate about photography, art, and literature.
https://linktr.ee/_fereshteh_._._