در وادی درد (زندگی نگاره ها 3) فارسی 1400

My friends! This ship is sinking, I'm sinking, and the water is running over me. The flag is still flying above the mast, but the fire has taken over everything, even the water; The sugar of death. Tonight, the pain of the little bird became a disaster, tossing this way and that, avoiding the tip of my syringe. It jumps from my hands and feet to the strap of my body, and the tail does not fit the strap. My needle wouldn't hit the target, and it wouldn't, and each time, the pain would get sharper and sharper. It's a sly way that death knocks us off our feet, and it also pretends that it's just a matter of thinning and simple lust. A generation never falls in one fell swoop—that's too sad and too obvious. Death prefers to work piecemeal. The meadow, at the same time, goes to the scythe in different directions. One of us is leaving today; the other a few days later; You have to look back, around you, to understand the empty places and the widespread massacre of your fellow generations. Pain penetrates my vision, my emotions, and my discernment; Everything passes through the smoothness of pain. It doesn't hurt to generalize. Every patient understands his own pain and that's it. Pain varies from person to person - like the singer's voice from hall to hall. The awakening of the garden, the black toka: composes a song with its tip, on the pale window. See how our dreams melt to fit in our current narrow fence. Today, I don't even want to get better—just stay the way it is. Pain: this hijab of Yalaq's face. These roads, with their beautiful little twists and turns—all they evoke in me now is a sense of escapism. In going, running away from my illness.