Pension Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Here
The gardens are divided
As were the Sods in Soviet

Here
Vision is as far as clouds
And G-suits wall the heart

Here
Walls wear signs that
The residents hardly read

Here
No line is in sight but
Invisible extends too long

Here
Skins are wrinkled and
White are hairs; random

Here
One hears laughter of
Joy; all are driers, kettles.

Here
Centrifuged is youth.
Compote, the freshness

Here
Days are counted to
Let the life’s branch shake

Here
One can call: “A last
Stop for the bus to grave.”