"The Psychologist of Poets"ص by Aref Moallemi

In orchids,

he multiplied the room

until the balcony broke open.

Four floors underground,

he grafted the apartment

to compose a deep poem.

Each depth

has its own darkness—

until he found one private enough

to write in,

a fragment of shadow.

An invisible clock-hand

spun him tight;

his gaze bent with its curve.

Almost swallowed

by the abyss of his own eyes,

he wondered:

If the battery sleeps,

can I stay awake outside time?

What difference for one

who is already

the sand in an hourglass?

Only when a houseplant sprouted

did the certainty of glass collapse

into green mercy.

He shaped the hourglass

into a pot of soil,

thinking he had escaped time—

but only set himself adrift

in dead hours.

The apartment revolves

inside the hourglass.

At its center,

he empathizes with hamsters,

or becomes the hand that spins,

unraveling its yarn

to keep hours busy

weaving time.

From the throat of the hourglass

he builds a trumpet—

perhaps the dusted voice of his age

might be heard.

But what can it do,

when trumpet-flowers

press their lips

to Israfil’s horn?

Aref Moallemi is from Iran.