Poetry

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Sorrow

September 17, 2001
The Iranian

Tuesday September 11th , 2001.

I was on my way to work.

On the "W" train at 9:00 a.m.

Over the Manhattan Bridge,

the conductor said:

"Dear passengers, please look out of the left-side windows.

The World Trade Center is on fire!"

We rushed to watch the fire; the dark gray smoke.

Suddenly,

something fast.

Looked like a bird.

I thought it was a crow.

It slammed into the second tower.

I thought it was the end of the world!

I got out of the train on Canal Street.

Walked down to Sixth Avenue.

Our store had been ordered to close.

I saw the second tower crash down.

Dust and smoke came toward us.

People were screaming, crying, runing away.

"Where are you going?"

"Uptown! Just run!"

I had nowhere to go.

I was alone, and scared.

"My birds are all alone at home..."

"My dogs..."

"My cat..." I heard while runing.

"Just run," said the cop!

I walked over the Manhattan Bridge

to Brooklyn, with thousands of people.

People were covered with ash, dust, and some blood.

The sun was shining; it was so hot.

The sky was gray on the right side.

Kept walking and walking.

Some cars were passing by,

Giving rides to older people, the tired, the injured.

Cops were blocking the way;

no cars allowed into Manhattan.

Some Jewish men and women were waiting for us:

"Take this cup dear. Here's some Sprite and spring water.

Drink it, you'll feel better."

"Thank you lady!" I said.

"Where is the restroom?" I asked.

There was a university; "go to the main building."

Cops, were all over the building!

"Show me your ID," one asked me.

Here you go!

"I'll hold on to it. Go to the fifth floor.

Come back and show your face to me; then I'll return your ID," he ordered.

Yes SIR!

I felt much better.

I got a bus map.

There were no buses.

If there were, they were too packed to get in!

"Sir! would you show me where I am? I want to walk home," I told a cop.

"You are right here in your map; keep going that way."

Took me three hours to walk home.

This is my nest; home sweet home!

This is my beloved, my pet, my cat; safe, sleepy, purring:

"Isn't it too early for you to be back from work, mom?" he asked me with his eyes.

I lost my job. Only temporarily, I hope!

My landlord saw me sweaty, sunburned, lonely and hopeless.

"Don't worry! Iranians ain't doin' the bombing!

Let's go biking and spit on terrorists," he said.

"I need to be left alone," I answered.

I cried with firemen,

cops,

The President,

and those who lost loved ones.

I'm in pain.

I'm ashamed.

I kept cleaning my apartment.

To forget.

I couldn't give blood;

there was no way to get into hospitals.

They were all crowded.

People were waiting for hours.

I gave some money to the Red Cross.

I got a new T-shirt,

with a huge American flag on it.

I put it on today,

sat in front of the TV,

went to the National Cathedral,

cried with the voice of a black angel.

I'm ashamed,

I am ashamed;

I wasn't Iranian today.

It's such a shame!

New York - Sep. 14th 2001

Comment for The Iranian letters section Comment to the writer Tannaz Ebadollahi