relics of mind – I

nights like this, i put my head on a pillow, and let the ruminants of…let’s say (for now) an interesting past unfold, with attention to a brevity of details. 

tonight, i began to whisper these lyrics of a song long lost to my ears -“به همان خانه‌های خام، “عشق پخته داشتیم به روی عشق خود، پا نمی‌‌گذشتیم

what i do? i whisper that song till i fall asleep. then i wait another night. for another relic of past, to haunt me in the most beautiful way. 

[let me know if you need a translation of those lyrics.] 

[correction: in a previous version of this post, I misquoted the lyrics, someone was nice enough to point that out]

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