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Poem: Markets

By Mali Mostoufi


My last Muse died,

I buried it in my Memories,

Beside the others.


Their ghosts are now hovering ,

Over these white pages,

Filling Images,

With their ghostly Pictures.


These are calculating Times,

To measure the gains,

Or the losses.


Poetry is no gain,

In the world's Markets.



At least the last two centuries,

Novels have taken the place,

Of  Poetry - fast.


No Time for poets,

To muse and write,

Like Rumi or Byron.


My poems are like riddles,

Locked in my heart.


I must have another Birth,

To write fast novels,

From my past memories,

About every Poetical Muse,

For these fast Times.




I have saved some thick Files,

Full of exchanged letters,

With every Muse of mine,

They are telling better,

Than my memories;


I sell them in a Novel,

Free of charge,

Markets will gain! . . .


Mali Mostoufi

New York - November 03, 2008

... Payvand News - 11/05/08 ... --

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