Nomura accordion turkey goose and child
Torches in the river reflect the shadow of a loved one singing in the water
I told her the story of the mother of lime and stone
Fireworks stick lit by grandma's bedside on roof lifted by uncle in rain
Meet with her in the closed room, the rock candy hawthorn dropped from the scalded tinned iron lunch box
Just when the fireworks almost made people get carried away,
"Don't cry Dhaka, don't cry Dhaka" sounded in my ear
This is actually an exile poem in exile
Cut off women's breasts and homesickness
The various men in Berkhan Ahmand are not wanderers, they are just pigeons raised by God, and they can still play in the labyrinth. They can even play gods, sowing danger and sin in the lands of the way.
Let me tell you, the real homeless are women.
It is the girl who was trapped in the backward slope of the loess for eternity by illness, the wife who was raped and yet to prove her innocence, and the woman who was trafficked, took off her coat, and put on shame. It is the woman whose vagina becomes a man's pleasure and a disposable trophy, and whose womb is forever entrapped, and who dies on the way of childbirth.
They don't have names, and they're either outlaws or lost in the times.
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