by Maboud “E” Ebrahimzadeh


Hands shook, warm—

Lips trembled, warm—

People spoke gently,

Deaf ears turned towards the noisy crackle,

Blind eyes burned at the unfiltered end,

With a clink, extinguished—

Embers glowed full of life,

Surrounded by death.

His funeral, cold—

My cigarette, cold—

I stood having parted once already

Not willing to part again,

Not on that cold wet day.