Bury me there,
In times so Persian, and smells so Painting
Let me reborn with with Shekure,
and Black, the epitome of love,
if such exists in this world or any.
Say them as red and blue,
smelling of paints and smelling of stories
Let me live with them.
Love, said much more about it.
Believe them true,
But then dream never of being buried there.
Between the lines.
That’s strange place for
you to live your death.
But, bury me there.
Or don’t let me die, ever.
(For the beautiful people who have read ‘My name is red’)