I know your city 
just as I know you .
It walk in its hind legs,
the ironed collar hiding itching necks.
I know your comradeship 
with it in sleepless dreams.
You both carry a punctured smile 
in leather purse, 
fully prepared to encounter 
a strange miracle.
Your hearts are made of 
fragile china rock , 
by a blacksmith who 
didn't know what tenderness was.
You hum like the engine 
spinning on the streets of your city : 
that is, out of habit not happiness.
You move in hushed tones 
of morning rushes your city has, 
graciously and fluently.
And you both have 
leftover memories of a spring 
inside your shoes, 
which you take out only  
in comfort of a silence.
And when sunlight touches 
the pavements of  your city, 
it spins a dervish rhythm, 
just like moles on your skin.
The honey 
Your city, an art of contradictions,
where stone meets dew, 
like love and hate inside you.
Your memories, corrupted like 
the monuments of this city:
Persian marbles bathed in 
blood of the best sculptor of world.
Am the crow kicking pebbles 
While you are the holy sanctum 
of this city .
Am an impassive summer
in gypsy skirt,
You are this city 
I want to call home.


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