Short Story: The Commerce Bank, written by Avat Pouri.

Dedicated to the eight citizens who were killed in 1359 (1980) by the shots of government snipers in front of the old police station in the city of Sanandaj, located on Sefri Street, and were buried in an empty land nearby. Later, a bank was built on this land and on top of these bodies.

My aunts died yesterday. They had COVID. They were buried quietly so no one would notice. Today, in this state of quarantine, fear, and anxiety, I got up and came to Bank-e Tejarat, right around Eqbal Square in Sanandaj, in front of the statues they call Freedom. With both hands raised to the sky, it’s unclear if they are praying to God or the ruler, begging or complaining. By the way, what happened to the pigeons that used to fly out of their stomachs? What a useless and pointless artist! What did he think when he let half of his statues be taken and thrown in the trash, while he happily handed over his work. I pulled up my mask, out of fear of being fined. What use is a mask when you have no money? And in this situation, I got up and came to ask for a loan that I fell behind on and a loan that I never received. Who are they fool

من به دنبال یافتن عشق واقعی هستم

I am looking for true love.
Painting: A work by Nadia Shams.

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Poem: “The Silence of Khusrow Tabrizi’s Clot.”

Write! Possessed by the jinn!
Oh, the struggle for meaning!
Write! We were executed
Without having confessed.
Lost in the silence
Wandering
In this endless summer,
How should we see the image of sacrifice
In your blue striped shirt,
Oh brother of the double-edged pain!
Oh, the height of blood,
The twisting trees of nameless spring!
How will your mother tonight
Say the funeral prayer?!
Let the story be endless,
Let me finish here the vertical pole
That connects to the resurrection of man,
I rise
Hands from the prayer of rain,
Watching the dead in their sleep.
The curtains of sight
Connect deeply to the earthly grave.
Let me take you and myself,
Metal shackles,
In the confusion of agitation.
Here and now
There is a clash of anger and explosion,
In the midst of the dead god’s sky
In the middle of the growing soil.
The saints of this image
Are caught in the