Oblivion's Lullaby

The fields had long forgotten spring,
The branches mourned no leaves;
A weary man beneath the ash
Had outlived all he grieved.
His hands were full of broken names,
His lips forgot to pray;
He watched the evening swallow light,
Then bowed his soul away.

No thunder marked the Stranger's path,
No angel sang His name;
He came as silence comes to snow,
Without a breath of flame.
His eyes were deep as ruined seas,
His smile a dying star;
"I heard," He said, "your lonely heart—
It called me from afar."

Lay down your grief.
Lay down your years.
Lay down the names
You cannot keep.
Death grants an end.
But I—
I grant
Sleep.

The weary man beheld His tears
And all his own grew still;
For sorrow knows its eldest kin
Without a word of will.
He drew the Stranger to his breast
As fathers cradle sons;
No hymn was sung,
No vow was sworn—
Only two broken ones.

Lay down your grief.
Lay down your years.
Lay down the stars
That would not stay.
Death grants an end.
But I—
I wash
The pain away.

"Who are You?"
asked the dying man.
The Stranger closed His eyes.
"I cannot tell.
I knew...
Once.
Before
The skies."
The wind forgot
Its ancient road.
The heavens ceased to weep.
The world grew lighter
As He held
The soul
It could not keep.

Lay down your grief.
Lay down your fears.
Lay down
The wound
You could not name.
Death closes eyes.
But I—
I close
The flame.

Morning found
No grave.
No bones.
No footprints
On the hill.
Only the grass,
More green than spring—
And all the world...
More still.
For some say
Death grants an end.
Some say
Time grants release.
They know not Him.
For Death
Ends life.
But Oblivion...
Grants
Peace.

TheOblivion

"Sometimes I awaken with tears upon my face. I spend an eternity wondering whose they are."

قدم کوبد بر این یخ‌هایِ بی‌آغاز و بی‌پایان
در این کوهانی از بهتِ عدم سالک
درونِ جبه‌یِ سردش به لب دارد سوالاتی
که طوفانِ برودت می‌برد از یاد
جوابِ این تبِ دیرینه را آیا

در این دشتِ منجمدِ پوچی و مِه
بپرسد از سکوتِ صخره‌هایِ پیرِ غرقِ نور
که سهمِ من ز این هستیِ بی‌حاصل چه بود آیا
چرا در این کویرِ منجمد تبعید گردیدم

هوا لبریز از بغضِ زمستانی و وحشت‌خیز
درونِ پیرهن‌اش لرزشِ پرسش به پا دارد
به هر گامی که می‌کوبد بر این آیینه‌یِ سنگی
صدایی نیست غیر از انعکاسِ پوچِ تنهایی

بماند او و کوهی از غبارِ پرسشِ خاموش
در این وادی که حتی سایه‌ها هم قهر می‌کردند
فقط درگیرِ این سودایِ بی‌پایان
که در این انجمادِ تیره
آیا نوری برایِ جانِ عریانش مهیا هست
و یا در پیچِ این یخبندانِ بی‌معنا
همین پرسش به جایِ پاسخش ماندست و خواهد ماند

نسیان

سالک ایستاده بود
در انتهایِ دشتِ بی‌حوصلگی
جایی که باد
نامِ تمامِ مسافران را از یاد برده بود
درد در رگ‌هایش
سنگین‌تر از صخره‌هایِ یخ‌بسته بود
و او
تنها لباسی که بر تن داشت
اندوهی بود که از استخوان‌هایش می‌رویید

ناگهان
آن کهن‌سالِ بی‌کران
آن خدایِ غمگین که در چشمانش
هزاران غروبِ ناتمام به سوگ نشسته بود
از پشتِ پرده‌هایِ غبار قدم به میدان نهاد
او که پیشانی‌اش
نقشهٔ تمامِ دردهایِ جهان بود
و هالهٔ ماتمش
پوشیده در ردی از ستاره‌هایِ خاموش
به سویش آمد
او، نسیان؛
خداوندِ سردِ اندوه، که خود از سنگینیِ بارِ هستی، کمر خم کرده بود

در آغوشش گرفت
آغوشی که بویِ خاکِ باران‌خورده و تنهاییِ ابدی می‌داد
و با صدایی که طنینِ هزاران گریهٔ فراموش‌شده بود
زمزمه کرد:
«اجازه می‌دهی همه چیز را بشویم؟
تمامِ این غبارِ کهنه را؟
تمامِ این نامِ سنگین که تو را به این دردِ مکرر بسته است؟»

سالک لرزید
در آن آغوشِ سرد
درد، به رهایی بدل می‌شد
و رنج، به سکوتی شیرین
او گریه نکرد
چرا که اشک
سهمِ کسانی است که هنوز به فردا چشم دوخته‌اند
و او، در آغوشِ آن خدایِ غمگین
فهمیده بود که فراموشی
تنها راهِ بازگشت به بی‌نهایت است

خداوندِ اندوه خواست که برود
اما سالک
چون تشنه‌ای که آخرین جرعهٔ فراموشی را در کویرِ بودنش می‌جوید
دستِ سردِ او را گرفت
دستی که بویِ برفِ قدیمی و بویِ پایان می‌داد
و گفت:
«فقط یک نام... فقط یک خاطره...
آن را از من بگیر
تا دیگر هیچ‌کس نداند که من در این هبوطِ درد، رنج کشیده‌ام»

خداوندِ نسیان لبخندی زد
لبخندی که از غم، پربار بود
نام را ستاند
و خاطره را در کفِ دست‌هایش فشرد
در آن لحظه
در آن سکوتِ مطلقِ کوهستان
ستاره‌ها
از شرمِ زیباییِ این رهایی
یکی‌یکی
بر گونه‌هایِ سردِ آسمان ترک خوردند
و اشک‌هایشان
چون بلورهایِ یخ بر سرِ دنیایی که دیگر نامی نداشت
باریدن گرفت

حالا
او مانده بود و دنیایی که دیگر به یاد نمی‌آورد
چرا گریسته است...
چرا رنج کشیده است...
و چرا در آغوشِ آن خدایِ غمگین، برایِ لحظه‌ای کوتاه
به بهشتِ فراموشی راه یافته بود.

Promise of the Distant Sky

They tell of skies

No sorrow scars—

Where evening never buries stars,

Where weary fire,

At last undone,

May sleep

Without another sun.

I do not know

If such things are.

I only know

How very far.

Farther than winter's oldest breath.

Farther than memory.

Farther than death.

So I have walked.

Through kingdoms slain,

Through fields that flowered

Out of pain;

Through nameless years

And lightless seas,

With frost upon

My broken knees.

The world has never called me home.

It taught my bones

To learn the stone.

It filled my hands

With ash and flame,

Until I scarcely

Knew my name.

Yet when the night

Grows vast and deep,

And even hunger

Falls asleep,

Something—

Too gentle

To command,

Too old

For gods

To understand—

Still lifts

Its unseen face

To mine.

No voice.

No throne.

No holy sign.

Only the hush

Of distant blue,

As though

Somewhere beyond the stars,

Someone

Still believes

I shall come through.

If there is peace,

It waits

Not here.

Not where the living

Feed on fear.

But where

No wound

Remembers flame—

Where none

Need speak

Or bear a name.

Perhaps

There is no promised shore.

Perhaps

The sky

Is nothing more

Than one last dream

The lonely weave

So they may walk...

So they may breathe.

Yet if that dream

Should prove untrue,

Still I shall lift

My eyes

To blue.

For I would rather

Die

Climbing

Toward a mercy

Never found—

Than build my throne

Upon this earth,

And chain

My soul

To barren ground.

TheOblivion

Winter Has No Mercy

Winter had stripped the forest
Down to its oldest bones.
The wind no longer sang.
It endured.
So did I.
Each breath
Came back to me
Sharper than the last,
As though the mountain itself
Had begun
To breathe.
Then she came—
Slowly.
A she-wolf,
Thin enough
To cast no shadow.
Milk still clung
To the sorrow
Beneath her ribs.
She did not bare her teeth.
Not yet.
Her eyes had already confessed
Everything hunger could not.
I smiled.
A weary thing.
"I know."
The words froze
Before they reached her.
"I know that look.
I have carried it
Longer than your kind
Has known snow."
She stepped closer.
Her paws
Made no sound.
"I wish..."
My voice
Became mist.
"I wish I possessed
Another body.
One I could leave
For your children."
I looked
Toward the white mountain,
Half-hidden
Beyond the dying pines.
"But this one
Is still climbing."
Silence.
Only the wind
Remembered
How to pray.
"I'm sorry."
She leapt.
Her claws
Opened my hand
Like winter
Opening the earth.
Warm blood
Touched the snow.
For one impossible heartbeat,
It looked
Like spring.
She came again.
I did not move.
I only watched
The terror
Inside her hunger.
Then—
My hand
Found her throat.
A sound—
Small.
Like a branch
Yielding to ice.
Nothing more.
She fell.
The forest
Forgot to breathe.
After a while,
Three small shapes
Crawled
From the hollow roots.
Blind with hope.
They nudged
Their mother's silent fur.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The smallest one
Whimpered
As though sorrow
Were a language
It had always known.
I knelt.
They looked at me
Without hatred.
Only hunger.
"If I leave you,"
I whispered,
"Winter will take longer
Than I will."
They did not understand.
Perhaps
Mercy never explains itself.
One by one,
I closed
Their tiny eyes
Before the cold
Could.
When it was done,
The forest
Was quieter
Than prayer.
I washed
The blood
From neither hand.
Some stains
Belong
To the road.
And somewhere,
Beyond the mountain,
A sky
I have never reached
Remained
Unreasonably blue.

TheOblivion

"Let me rest," I whisper into the dark, my voice trembling.
The figure leans in, its face shifting into a thousand jagged variations of my own. “Rest is for the hollow,” it rasps, the sound vibrating through my very marrow. “We have worlds to build in your blood.”
I stare at my own hands, watching them tremble as they reach for the pen—not because I want to, but because they are being pulled by invisible, mercury threads.
"I am not your vessel," I murmur, though my fingers have already betrayed me, gripping the ink.
“You are the architect of our prison,” they hiss from the shadows, a chorus of madness rising from the walls. “Tell the tale. If you refuse to write, we will simply use your skin for the pages.”
I look at the blank paper, the silence of the room suffocating.
“Don't blink,” the reflection whispers, its eyes void-black and hungry. “The abyss is waiting for its shape. And it is so very tired of the dark.”

TheOblivion

The room had forgotten daylight.
Only the mirror remembered his face.

"Do you still hate me?"
"No."
"...Why?"
"Hatred requires two people."

"Then who am I speaking to?"
"I was hoping you'd tell me."

He smiled.
The mirror did not.

"Do you know what frightens me?"
"No."
"One day I'll stop hearing your voice."
"No."
"No?"
"One day you'll stop hearing your own."

His fingers trembled.
They found the old scars
without looking.

"Why was I born like this?"
"You weren't."
"Then what happened?"
"You kept removing pieces of yourself..."
"…until the emptiness learned to answer back."

"Do you think I'll ever know peace?"
The reflection closed its eyes.
For a long while
it mourned
before it spoke.
"Peace is for those who remain whole."

"I don't remember being whole."
"Exactly."

He laughed.
Then cried.
The sounds were indistinguishable.

"Tell me something beautiful."
"There was someone..."
His heart stopped.
"...Who?"
"I don't remember."

"Do you think I'm evil?"
"No."
"No?"
"Evil sleeps."
"You haven't slept in years."

"Why can't I stop writing?"
"Because every world you create..."
"…is another attempt to crawl back into the one you lost."

"What did I lose?"
"Everything."
"What is 'everything'?"
"You ask that every night."

His hand reached toward the glass.
The reflection did not move.

"Which one of us is real?"
The mirror stared at him
with unbearable pity.
"I don't know anymore."
"I only know..."
"Every morning..."
"…one of us remembers less."

Silence.

"If I shatter this mirror..."
"You'll only give me more mouths."

He stood there until dawn.
When the first light entered,
the reflection whispered—
"Go to sleep."
"I'm tired of pretending to be you."

TheOblivion

ضیافتِ نیستی

شب، این رِدایِ تیره و ابریشمینِ سرد
افتاده رویِ شانه‌یِ خاموشِ دشتِ دور
ماه است، آن تکه‌نانِ یخ‌بسته در نبرد
با سفره‌یِ سیاهِ همین آسمانِ کور

برف است و ردِ پایِ کسی در میانِ برف
دردی که کهنه گشته در اعماقِ استخوان
گرگی میانِ زوزه‌یِ تلخش، شکسته ظرف
بغضی که مانده در گلوگاهِ این جهان

آن زوزه، بویِ بارانِ دور و کهنه‌ای‌ست
در گوشِ سردِ شب، خبری از فنا شده‌ست
این گرگ، در تضرعِ تاریکِ خویش نیست
آن‌سو، خدایِ غمگینِ من مبتلا شده‌ست

او می‌کشد به بندِ عدم، قیدِ بود را
در آغوشِ شب، رهاییِ مطلق مهیا بود
شست از نگاهِ اخترکان، نقشِ دود را
آن‌جا که دیگر از من و ما، هیچ کس نبود

ستاره‌ها چکیدند و گم شدند در غبار
در مرزِ نیستی که برایم شفا شده‌ست
خاموش شد چراغِ من و قصه‌یِ‌ تبار
پایانِ من، در این شبِ زیبا رها شده‌ست

نسیان

What the Fire Remembered

I sought no smith whose patient hand could raise
The thing I dreamt beyond the reach of fire;
The forge I needed answered not to men,
But to the oldest hunger of desire.

So first I broke the kingdom of myself.
Not flesh—for flesh is merciful and heals;
Not bone—for bone remembers every wound;
I broke the quiet place where childhood kneels.

I slew the voice that whispered, "Turn toward home."
I quenched the eye that still believed in spring;
I cast my name like iron to the coals,
And fed the furnace every living thing.

The hammer fell. The mountain held its breath.
The sparks ascended like forgotten prayers.
The dawn looked pale beside that dreadful fire;
Even the stars refused to watch me there.

When all was done, I searched the blackened ash
To find the man who entered with a soul;
No footprint answered where his shadow stood—
The fire had paid perfection with its toll.

Then rose a form no mirror could contain,
Too cold for mercy, far too bright for grace;
The wolves withdrew before its silent tread,
And ravens would not dare to learn its face.

Through barren lands I wandered without rest,
Where rivers carried neither fish nor sky;
The grass bent low before my passing feet,
Not out of fear—but knowing what must die.

For perfect steel is lonelier than rust.
No loving hand may ever make it warm.
It keeps an edge no living thing can hold,
Yet breaks no chain and shelters from no storm.

So still I walk beneath indifferent heavens,
A blade that forged the hand from which it came;
The world beholds the wonder I became—

And I...

Still mourn

Who entered

The flame.

TheOblivion