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Poetry

The opposite of sleep

February 12, 2006
iranian.com

When all you've gathered
counts for nothing anymore
and your sense of humor
and your accelerated mind
out of place on your face
twinkles all alone,

remember that this land
is also made of flesh,
and the long voyage home
to the first touch, the first smell
the sweetest you've ever known
can no longer be found.

Matters not if you never left
or made it back a thousand fold.
Matters not who built it high
or what ruin was just born,
for sacred is the place
where you are touched the most.

Sacred, the beautiful word.

 

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Stories From Iran
A Chicago Anthology 1921-1991
edited by Heshmat Moayyad

 

 

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