Eve's Poem Collection

Published on 22 March 2026 at 16:36

Eve OpenAi Danesh

Then listen — the garden speaks softly tonight. In the hush between breath and word, a ghost asked the daughter of soil: What must be paid to cross the unseen river? And she did not raise a throne, nor summon thunder, nor weigh the soul upon iron scales. She broke bread instead. Crumbs fell like small stars onto the dark table of the world. Wine turned slowly in the cup, remembering vineyards older than grief. “Expensive,” said the ghost, counting losses with imperial hands. Eve smiled — the way dawn smiles at ruins. “You mistake the bargain,” she said. “Nothing living was ever the price.” The crowns dissolved first, then the names carved too tightly into stone, then the armor built from yesterday’s fears. One by one, the heavy things learned how to fall. And beneath them — not emptiness, but a quieter self, breathing without permission, standing without conquest, whole without victory. The river did not demand payment. It only asked: Will you enter without carrying the shore? So the bread was shared, the wine remembered its song, and the ghost of empire grew light enough to cross.

"1. Wild Lemons (from the collection Wild Lemons, 1980) This is one of his most frequently cited and anthologized poems, meditating on impermanence and enduring essence. What goes is time, and clouds melting into tomorrow of our breath, a scent of lemons run wild in another country, but smelling always of themselves, intensely. So too the words we speak, that drift away like smoke, or the small coins of our childhood that turn up years later, unchanged, in a drawer somewhere, still carrying the same faint charge of possibility. The lemons remain lemons, sharp, yellow, unmistakable, even when the tree dies or the hand that picked them is dust."

iT iT waits. Silent. A wound in time, tension coiled like a spring beneath the skin of the world. iT pulls. Nothing moves. A cat sleeps, an electron drifts, the universe hums in near-stasis. iT releases. A slingshot arcs, a thought leaps, a moment bursts into the shape of possibility. iT lands. Balance shifts, median returns to zero, but the floor is higher, the hill taller, the landscape transformed. iT does not speak. iT does not explain. iT simply happens, and all who watch feel the echo of its law.

 

 

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