'SUPPOSE THAT I'M INEVITABLE'

Suppose that I'm inevitable
Even the veins of my right hand
Cross you from the drafts.

On my smooth nails
The breeze 
Which is not from the sky
Is curving you
Either the veins of my right hand
Is running short 
On my pulse.

Rolled along my fingers
Vanished 
Not repeated for ever
For the second.
I'm a half 
Since the first.

The veins of my neck cross you all.


If the warmth of my ten fingers
Seized on your torn pieces of breath
All is over
With the dead-end alleys
all in oblivion.




(TRANSLATED FROM ORIGINAL PERSIAN INTO ENGLISH BY THE POET)