And then someone from another rooftop shouted a verse of Rumi’s poetry into the clear night air.
I do not wait for poetry
But go in search of it
Because my wings are broken
And I am left far from my nest…
I was fifteen years old
When I found the moon in the Biabanak sand dunes.
Death, like a weary actress
Has gone behind the stage
To take off her black dress
And put on her lounging gown.
I like the sweet accent
Heard on the stairs this morning:
Persian with a hint of American.
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