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Pedar Joon
Poem

By Shaya Mohajer
August 29, 2001
The Iranian

Rosy cheeks after each shower.

Silver hair combed carefully, water held it in place.

As time passed -- absent, tardy and slow -- the hair fell away, and there remained a comb.

A bronze bracelet pressed around his wrist.

His glasses shone, his voice was bright.

Pride rang through on the telephone, even when the line frayed and cracked.

Cologne, French and strong

Hung around his smoothly shaven face

"Bonjour, bonjour, j'mappel Tayefe Mohajer."

He was the first man I saw apply lather to his face with a small, round brush.

Infinite patience.

It must have been a warm day, like the last one I'd seen him.

I remember when his brow sweated he patted it away with a handkerchief.

A day like the day we walked together to the home of his servant to eat shah toot.

Roozee zeh sareh sang oghabee be hava khaast

It must have been a warm day --

A warm day where the dust rose over a road that wound into the heart of Iran.

He was one of the last gentlemen.

He was the man who read poem after poem from the pages of his soul.

He is a grandfather of history, of a civilization that has disappeared, but

the smell still hangs, like French cologne and the green of trees in spring.

Comment for The Iranian letters section Comment to the writer Shaya Mohajer