The greatest of altruists, a man of heart, He tried to secure a place, in his paradise lost. Unlike Milton’s paradise, his own was full of velvet ignorance, unwilling

All the muses absent from my literary world, I looked for the eternal lute of Apollo— to sing with no word; Tired of life, trying

Shiraz wine: the Persian nostalgia— the red color, the joy, the lust, the warmth of the heart— in the coldness of a strange space, a

The joyful Past acts as a timber for the lugubrious Now— an air of bravura in coma, a kind of rapt in thought, a crippled

False piety his prey Flying in the hatred sky with the wings of anxiety, the only falcon of ungodly realm, was carrying his madness through

With no extrasensory requirement, Mortality, innately inherited, Torn between Evil and Piety, With an infinite length of falsity, And shrinking strength; nature made my edifice