By Siamak Kiarostami
December 5, 2001
Now that you are here,
I want to examine your ancient brown hands
hold them in my own
and look at the cracks and stains
that your 69 years have given you
I want to examine your eyes and white hair
to see if there lie the origins of my own
how could I have come from you?
Understanding you is overwhelming
this kindness, this attention
I find you too unselfish and too humble
I am unfamiliar with your love
with the emotions of your voice
and with the rituals between
you and your God.
And what of my cigarettes
and Saturday night habits?
My ill-temper and impatience?
The absolute divorce from religion
in my life, my hip hop and
illiteracy of your poets?
That I spend too much money on nothing and
What of my English riddled Farsi, Naneh
and my American girlfriends --
how much of yourself do you see in me?
And now that you are here,
what of this relationship?
absent of apple pies and Americana
absent of care packages
and family gatherings --
What of this relationship
so long defined by absence?