by arustamyananahi A POET IS A POEM
How long would a poem flit across a poet's lips? Tongues! You are never tired of climbing up the hills.
Hearts! Are you really flirting in a drip of ink? Times! Your carriages are never tired of running to blink. Would a poet find a blanket made of silk?
Bitter beer wouldn't be as sweet as milk. Poet! Who knows what you drink.
I might sleep not to rise in one morning's mint . Could I be a poem recited by a rustling leaf? Who knows how poems stretch a poet's skin.
What does a poem drink to climb up the hills? A poet is a poem but who knows this.
A POET AND A POEM MY INTOXICATED INK POETRY BOOK BY ANAHIT ARUSTAMYAN