07 October 2009

 پاییز


این راه بن‌بست نیست ...
این بی‌پرده فریاد
مرا
شبیخون بادی‌ست به پنجره‌ای
که می‌درَد انگار
به کنج اتاقی
به تختی
بر انسانی
به میله‌های تکیده و بلند و عریان مردی
مردی که دراز کشیده در سکوت و سرما
که می‌شمارد کلاغ‌های شهر را
دو، سه،‌ چهار
دوهزار و یک، دو یا پنج ...
دوازده هزار و سیصد و سه، چهار، هشت.

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