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This is the stone

By Mersedeh Khozin
December 12, 2001
The Iranian


I want to shrug it all off;

the gross pap of warm anaesthetized brains,

cell phones ringing with stale tongues,

the bland translations of headlines,

walls everywhere.


When money's sensual brutality

chats warmly in your veins,

when your possessions assert their tyranny

mocking you from corners,


Where is the moon's still wash

over uncluttered landscapes?

where are your lovers' mouths

which stopped your mouth so neatly?

In this dreamless society you put them away.


Now I turn to the window,

which mimics me in ice,

my face a marble of loss,

my hair a curtain of dust;

this is the stone I work on

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