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(for M. Balamane)



April 18, 2006

You glide unthinkably

A green end to a dark river

You are the purpose that rain tastes this sweet

You are my echo when I was the voice of sickness

You are my mirror when I’ve fallen for illusions

You are my pride caught raw in the dry web of humanity.

And I am the land of shadow dragging feet over the infinite body of black shadow

The amber eyelids turned to fire

In the silence of tongues inside the openness of throats

I am the song of the birds

Passing over the permanence of the blue water

I am the injustice sacrificed by the sun god of time

The crown of grass and stone

Pieced together from the orange blossom field

Left by another’s field of lamenting shadow.

I am gold with rhythm

Fragrant with the empty images that lift the air

Into a fruit bed of dripping composition

Broken, fuming with loss but still smiling

The river of faith

Drumming the turquoise babble of pebbles

Hidden beneath the ongoing flow.

Roads are at the mercy of songless, moonless eyes


Turned to chains, as blank as jasmine on the highway

Granite brushing them beneath the copper streets.

Alone in their rooms are enough pain to unarm pain

Tell me the tale of your life

And I will remember mine.

For letters section
To Arash Daneshzadeh

Arash Daneshzadeh


Book of the day

Three volume box set of the Persian Book of Kings
Translated by Dick Davis

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