They don’t come

In the halves of nights

With quarters of Arak

They don’t knock on your doors

At the climax of dreams

***

They don’t question you

When they see you perplexed

With no direction in your pocket

To go

***

In the pocket of each of them

Is a pen

As sharp as a moment of waiting

But unable to cut the neck of a sparrow.

***

Archaeologists!

***

They are busy

With things

Outside our attention:

***

A lover’s tears

That dropped

On the sand

Of an unknown night!

***

A song

Constructed by a drunk

Who didn’t take pleasure

In its warmth

For even an hour!

***

A letter

A soldier was writing

But was unable to finish

With passing of death express!

***

A farewell

disturbed by the whistling of a train

***

A smile

Confiscated by a customs agent

***

The end of a tale

Fallen from the pocket

Of an old man!

***

An address

Nobody wrote to!

***

Those archaeologists!

They are busy

With things outside our attention

***

Those invisible creatures

Digging for incomplete joys!

***

If only

They could find

the missing halves

Of the facts

In the puzzle of crossed fates!

***

Archaeologists!

***