I was fifteen years old
When I found the moon in the Biabanak sand dunes.
I still hear
The sound of your laughter
On that summer morning
In spite of your aching body
Get up from your bed
And come to watch the river
I like the sweet accent
Heard on the stairs this morning:
Persian with a hint of American.
in memory of Hossein Okhovat-Moqaddam I wash my old hiking boots And with the tip of my finger Brush their muddy treads. Oh, Dried mud! From which land do you … Continue reading
Every morning they walk By the measuring tree On their way to school. Today the girl says: Daddy! Watch!” She stands on tiptoes And lifts her right arm To touch … Continue reading