shirin bolourchi

It’s the girl of all the winds
who falls in to pieces, 
from a roof top to another
in her red-stockings.

marsh land of her tears 

are the passage of spring

upon the heavyness of her eye lids

It’s the girl of all the winds,

at this moment in time

herself,hers only saint guardian.

selfish of her own pain

at the mistaken place,

perhaps