Dried

You molded me,
from clay to vase,
into one of the most beautiful shapes
that ever existed,
which if shown to the world,
would’ve been the envy of nations,
attract the most distant travellers,
and be shown in a pedestal,
in a magnificent temple,
that would live up to the beauty,
like a sacred casing
for its golden aura.

You left me to dry,
in the burning sun,
until my skin cracked up,
each day, deeper
each day, more parched
each day, more unavoidable,
slowly,
I became a ruin.

You put me in a corner,
and forgot about me,
and one day without noticing,
you tripped on me,
I crumbled to pieces,
thousands, minuscule, miserable.

I flew and spread with the wind.

It was up to you, to let me go.

                                    — Tehran, April 2015