|
 Come homeBy Jason Allen July 2, 2002 The Iranian I contacted you before I left for Iran to visit for the first time in 27 years since I was born in Tehran and left when I was a year old. I have not yet finished my pictures or stories from Iran (expect some breathtaking photos) but wanted to send you this poem I composed yesterday while sitting in the evening high up in the Alborz mountains above Darabad Valley as a teaser: When you touch the ground with your hand what do you feel? When you look up at the clouds in rows what is written there? When you sit on the mountain top with rows of copper rock, Layers of sweeping rubble shaking up to snow crescendos, What city is at your back? Where you hike do shepards walk thier flock in designs Playing reed flutes from the passion of their separation? Do men with strange blue eyes and lilting mountain tounge Stop you and press wild sweet & sour ribas into your palm? When the Iranian renaissance comes the hills will weep Bol Bol's fluttering sorrow, darvish finger's slow strings crying Love's language that the least of the real humans know When they drink wine their heart beats out Hafez, Saadi, Mowlana. Come home
 |
|
|
|
Web design by Bcubed
Internet server Global Publishing Group