lace over bosom, wooden halos, a goddess in sage, the seductive animus. perhaps, an artist has three hearts — like three pomegranates, spread deliciously over the purest muslin. one desires, the other consumes, and the remaining bleeds an image of a soul: sayat-nova's, the king of songs.

yet i have seen, the fruit is destined to share a kiss with the dagger. opened, for the world to indulge and to celebrate. each feeling the blood of the other. the poet's…

i am embraced to the heart.

what greater relief is there than to learn of a naked grandness in life — the purity in truth can emerge even without being communed. too often, we seek for a voice in everything. to align with the grander scope that's beyond our humble comprehension of life. we can no longer tolerate the unknown. every secret must be desired and uprooted. tahereh's response to hossein is perfectly veiled, gained through a merit that isn't…

like a fire that burns within water.

a miraculous fever reaching fullness, eclipsing the body of earth — of all its deep wells that has only ever known the faraway ritual of stars — with a light that rose from the gaze of our luminous saviors. a light that wraps one's soul in a white shroud of unsolvable vagueness, as earthly as it is out of this world. passing through, and throughout. and lays itself in the fade of one's…