Life’s my home

Life’s my home


Oh mother,
I will not still come back.
I cannot come back.
If you want to know how I’m?
I’m as well as the wellness of a fish hung on a fisherman’s net.
I don’t have anything like the nothingness of a host of wheat plant after the advent of a forthcoming windstorm.
My situation is not bad like the situation of that smuggler who does not feel the burden of life on his shoulders in his delightfulness of arriving at home.

Oh mother,
However it is, I’m not going to come back.
I’m going to weave a carpet in which you are going to be its central flower.
I’m already drawing up a picture of two mountains where you rise up in the middle of them.
I want to dream of an era that’s filled with life like your voice.

Oh mother,
Forgive me for I will not still come back.
I cannot still come back.
If you want to know where I’m?
My home is located on the west of town as if I’m as near of the sunset that I only look for life in myself.
I’m inhibited in the downsid
I’m inhibited in the downside of the floor of an apartment that instead of listening to your heartbeat I, luckily, listen to the heartbeat of homeland.

Oh mother,
Truthfully, I have no home.
May the Shiekh’s home be blessed as he did not allow me to blanket myself with the sky.
But Mother,
I want a doorway that leads me into the alleyways of happiness.
A doorway that shuts unto the wounds of my memory.
A doorway that opens up in a way I can feel the warmth of my existence in the ashes of my loneliness.
Every day, every night I wait to hear the sound of a hand to knock on my door so that my neighbor feels the existence of life besides them.

Oh mother,
I cannot still come back.
I’m occupied with those who do away with the tone of life for the sake of a song of theirs.
I’m occupied with those when you unveil their laughters, there appears a wound.
I’m occupied with my age. Any way I sum it up, it is equal to a grave.
I’m occupied with myself as a ghost is coming and forth in
I’m occupied with myself as a ghost is coming and forth in between my home and a street.
Oh forgive me mother,
I’m still unable to come back.
Even though I’m a stranger.
Life’s my home.”

                                  Nabaz Goran