A woman who tears the cocoon of history and shows up with all names, religions and countries.
This woman of history came from Hulagu’s crux and swore to burn all the tribes of his eyes.
She dipped her feet into the ashtray of his thoughts, her eternal leg got soaked with his sleeplessness.
She tied a shawl made of fire around her waist, so Hulagu cried and cried over the wind of the sad Nahawand.
He told me about her crying waist:
(Her heavy anklet, her eyes loaded with an old vendetta, her ancient arms, her raging hair and the parcel of nihilism in her neck, I touched it, I kissed it, then she got me and now I am nothing but a birthmark on the neck of a woman who was born from the womb of time.)
I heard his voice coming from eternity:
(The grief has grown old in her eyes.)
My voice – coming from the same eternity – replied:
(Idiot! So you just believed her? This grief is a frisky elder.)
Now a voice from my depths interrupted us saying:
(I was an idiot before you, that’s why I had believed this frisky elder and begged the fate to bring us together.
She wandered around the desert of my heart, then left after she tied her hair with my breastbone, claiming her victory. I am stuck before you in this parcel of nihilism and for ages I’ve been waiting to become a man again, in a new universe.)