There are times
Hemingway comes to me with his gun
And Plath with her shouts
I see her; ‘Virginia'
Handing me a big rock
When I run of myself,
Calling me: 'dangerous'
I see Poe and others
All drunk; Unconscious
Some have died already
Others are on the way
'What is this literature? '
I cried to Pushkin:
'I see them with morphine.'
Range of drugs; and Sabbah
Rubbernecks Jim Hendrix
Fat, ugly is ‘The King'.
Ay people of heart, mind
I deserve a madhouse
I have lost ‘Great Shams'
I'm friend of ‘Hallaj'
Khosrow led me; guided
Take me back to Babk
He resides in Tabriz
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem