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Here, the narrow alleys intertwine, 
Adjacent, arms folded, hands rest on chests, 
Legs stretched in repose, 
Saliva drips from the corner of open mouths.
I carry an image, 
The epicentre of this urban mass, 
Mornings tainted by the odour of decapitated heads, 
A pungent scent, rich and greasy, 
Echoing tales of the city.
The city of rage, 
A realm of overwhelmed souls, 
Infants yearning to retreat into the womb, 
Young girls with bodies aglow, 
Breasts amputated, 
Lying in hospital beds, gazing out windows, 
Fixating on the aroma of cooking heads, 
Whirling and ascending on this cold, innocent winter morning, 
Which swept our shared childhood away,
Into the void of a world that ceased to be, 
Into realms that would never manifest.
The city I've abandoned, 
Dark, tattered, and heartbroken, 
Its tale awaits another day, 
Perhaps when I'm far, far away. 
Maybe when I land on the other side of the Earth.
Then, I shall recount the story of this city, 
And sign it as: 



Tehran, December 2009...

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