We pollute 
all innocent whiteness
with the shameful sin of words.

In me, there is nothing
except wild primitiveness
and wandering and slippery words
overflowing from my ink-stained fingers.

Is there a difference
between confession and sin
and isn’t metaphor another form of reality?

And I,
this woman who has remained wildly primitive
after the first word,
the first confession,
become the eternal sinner of every sunset.

It has always been this way,
the one who takes the first step
gets infected sooner by the end.

The first word,
is an admission of guilt,
condemned to nothingness.

And I, 
with my mournful cello,
play the pile of black notes 
contaminated with endings,
in a sinful song,
upon the innocence of letter’s white paper.

Andisheh