Years are anthologies of healing,
Brink desaturating. Stars appearing
On the bleak horizon, one by one,
Becoming brighter, as your face
Turns to a pavilion. Now planes, are
No longer diabolical monsters, Islam is no more
The launch pad, there are pearl
And human shipments from Baghdad to Baltimore,
That don’t’ blow up on impact. Healing is found in
A stork’s gift, a nuptial, a botanical
Species named after you. September 11th
Will always be the day that the Big Apple died,
And now you see here apple orchards,
Every one of the produce, a different tone,
People plucking each other from the air,
Like destiny meant them to be.
Love is just like a journey in a Yellow-Colored car,
Called a “taxi”, in any dictionary
From Teheran to Texas, the only word that is the same
In every language. The human heart
Is too like a taxi, you don’t know who will
Get in next, or at what point, one,
Will get off. I guess, it is a modern truth,
That you get into many taxis in your lifetime.
Journeys, they transcend the back
Seat of a taxi-cab, just like 9/11.
Memory is the saving grace after the taxi ride,
After 9/11. And some lives, even 16 years after,
They are still seated alone inside a yellow taxi,
Parked in a space that hailstorms the past,
“Occupied” sign flashing on top,
As if they are in love with beautiful ghosts.

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