Shirin, what a merciless prince stole the flame of your thoughts and the lightness of your heart. Why did he do so? Why did he put such a heavy stone on the top of your head? Did he want to test his aim with a bow? To hit the stone and set you free from its weight? Why did he place the stone then?
I can see you Shirin, I can recognize every feature of your face, every gesture of your hand holding your cheek, pinching your lip, clearing your forehead. I know from where all those tears well, I know that snowy mountain, I’ve been to that place. I know what's behind your eyeballs, what’s covered by your veil. But he doesn’t know, Shirin. He cannot understand. He doesn’t burn in fire, he doesn’t pour his water, he only watches the flames. What a thirst for ashes, what a pointless ignition, smoke, and lack of breath.
I guess you Shirin, I trace you along Negar’s jaw, I spot you between the eyebrows of Juliette, I encounter you at the edge of the right lashes of Golshifteh. We all drank from the same breast. What an incandescent signal, what an unconcealed leak. I know you Shirin. I’ve met you everywhere. You are under the surface of the river whenever I stare. I did notice your loneliness, your glance off into space. He’s in the other side, projected with his aim... but I’m in your line of the stalls, I’m facing the screen as well, under the same lighting, sparkling the same way. I can relate Shirin, I can relate.
