|and once again i lost myself
floating astray inside this tempest.
bustan – the garden of carmel-
is where gutless drawn for shelter.
i watched them,
hearing no sounds.
in their 30-s.
my bare feet were reminiscing
forgotten stings of wooden dance floor.
obstructed crowd of “enlightened”
and me, among them,
my frozen fingers were caressing
cheap glass of substance filled with sadness.
thus, hostile body went on mourning
over once present sparkle.
while absent, yet, i was observing