written by: Anahit Arustamyan
Minutes dance me, you, and someone else.
A red dress made of silk leaves a colourless shade.
Precious pearls are nothing as winds have no necks.
A yellow dress made of satin melts on a shadow’s face.
Who knows where the wine stains stay.
Minutes pump hours and days.
Days are crumbs of ages turned pale.
Tears flee from eyes to rain.
Minutes steal whatever we save.
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