The broken wing
August 7, 2004
The Fatal Wave
The drops of the fatal wave,
the wet hand in the wet hand,
intend to become suddenly free,
from the dust of their body.
In the look of the sad sky,
the heartrendering scenes,
the bloody hands. The value
of our life has become the
upside down leaf. It results
the rush of death, the farm
without harvest, the drops of
the fatal wave, unaware of
the fence of night, run away
from the memories. The killed
of event is the poison of our
epoche. I tell as a bird about
my nest in the thought of travel
because of the pain of love.
The Broken Wing
The color of its wing is the sign
of freedom. Flew in paradise
with other emigrants, in my long
reflection the wild pretty swan.
It was a captive for the bad hunters.
Its wing was bloody, hurt by an
arrow, the sad broken wing. Groaning
of the pain, it fell in a vast lake. It
rained intensely. The tears of the sad
sky kissed its bloody sore. The swan
is in fact the nice country of pride.
I dream its flight again in the sky.
Taraneh Javanbakht I was born in Tehran in May 1974. She received
a B.S. in chemistry in Tehran in 1996 and came to Paris in 1997
to continue her studies. She received her M.S.c and doctorate
at Pierre and Marie Curie University in Paris. She is now resident
Canada and lives in Montreal. Her poems
have been published in various literary journals and magazines
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