For Shirin

Lustrous fingertips of crystalline grace,

Slope down to her tranquil forehead –

Blue and turquoise

Inlaid in her tresses.

They touch, kiss and dissolve.


I stroke the moisture off the glass.


The golden hand of a minute Greek youth,

Asleep on her bosom,

Rests on a fold of the white stream,

That flows over her body down to her shins

Leaving her left breast uncovered

Touching the graceful outline of his golden knee.


Looking out of the window

I open a bottle of milk.


The pale, green shadow on the instep of her foot

Indecisive in its retreat from the tottering light of dawn.

The sky breathes under her skin,

Spreading its clouds across her shoulders.

Memories recline in her breasts.


The thin curtains, the bread, the saucer still pronounce her name.

Even the biscuit thinks of her for a moment,

Before dissolving in milk.