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Poetry

Our gardener Mash Mammad

 

November 12, 2005
iranian.com

His hair of white, with years on me;

he'd take my ear: I listened carefully.

He'd shake his head and always smile

at some trouble I was in... of mischievous crimes.

I loved his roses.

They smelled like sugar I thought...

they smelled of the dreams I had yet to dream up.

When I was sick,

he'd bring me roses from his own garden...

those I somehow loved even more.

Never lose your spirit, he'd say.

When old and gray

all you'll regret are the things you didn't do!

Don't ever lose that spirit, he'd say.

Make your story unique and sweet

with a few lows and the highest peaks.

Make your book an enchanting tale

with the freedom of a ship on sail.

Make your story unique and sweet

with a few lows and the highest peaks.

See Mash Mammad, I know you're watching me.

Your words, like roses, have stayed with me.

I listened: I listened carefully.

And my chapters are as thick as can be.

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

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