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.
What shall I do with you, homeland?
What shall I do with all this blood?
Where shall I put you
to prevent you from filling my days
with damage and grief?
I like the sweet accent
Heard on the stairs this morning:
Persian with a hint of American.
We are sitting in the nature garden on the southern side of the campus. It is dark, and the autumn wind has picked up her ancient violin. We are talking … Continue reading
This is your country. You know which wells you can climb down before nightfall, Which wells will be dry even after the autumn rains, Which wells have paintings on the … Continue reading