mahmood delkhasteh

This poem is written in the memory of my brother, Masoud, who was killed by the Shah’s armed men in 1978.  He was nineteen and was the first martyr of the west of Tehran, Salsabil Mahaleh.  Maybe, only maybe, it was better that he was killed then, since knowing his ceaseless, fearless thirst for freedom and justice he would have otherwise been one of the first to be executed by Khomeini’s murderers.  

 

The dream of a tear drop: in memory of Masoud

 
 
First He was a word,

a beautiful word,

drowned in tears,

shed in loneliness,

in the cold dark of nothingness

shedding birth to a dream.

And life started from that dream,

from the desire to be known.

from the need to admire its beauty.

I became his image.

Free. A loose chain.

Creator of my own destiny.

Now I am in chains

in a desert of scourging sun and burning sands;

they denied my lips the water

to relieve my thirst.

in which to swim in.

in order to grow.

Here, my dried throat and splintered lips give birth

 to a new dream – my thirst can only be quenched

when there is no fear,

when it can breathe in the not-yet freedom,

when laughter is born,

when living in love is neither a crime nor a dream.

Me and a drop of water.

Me and a drop of sweat.

Me and a drop of blood.

And when we meet as dreamers in our dreams,

Then me, a drop in a river,

storming and flooded in spring,

ferocious and fearless, soft and gentle,

covered in colored flowers that float and kiss

The hard, thorny lips of the dark rocks

between themselves and the sea.

But it was the roses,

red roses that took bullets

from the rocks into their hearts.

No hatred.

Dreamers, in search of love.  

One flying bullet from the dark corners of gravediggers explodes his heart.

Blood rushing free - for a moment it seemed a rose had blossomed,

a red rose hidden in his chest, as to surprise his beloved.

Silence covering his face, he looks down at his shattered heart,

kissed many times by his beloved, now womb to a melting bullet.

Or no, only a dark hole burning into his back.

The bullet flew out in cowardice.

He falls to his knees, right hand touching the hole,

blood forcing itself from burnt veins, pouring to kiss his hand.

He looks, the birth of a smile on his bloody lips blossoming.

The mission of love is accomplished.

For him life was not worth living without freedom and freedom, worth dying for.

He could do no more.

No one could do more.

He falls back.

Hits the solid ground.

Stares at the blue sky, his brown eyes not forced closed by the staring sun.

In red, chest and earth are as one, had become one

Red is the color of love.

Red is the color of courage, for lovers have to be courageous as they are one.

Red is the color of one who wants to live life to its fullest.

*          *          *                                             

The stormy waves of an endless river

smash themselves against the rocks,

red roses at front,

bleeding lips kissing the hot barrels of the guns.

These kisses grow wild flowers,

water them with the tears of those once stone.

No lover can resist the call of love.

Finally, finally,

no more bullets breaking.

Rocks break away with the fearless fire of love,

the river rushes into the open sea of freedom.

Freedom! At last, living in love.

But the dream, realized, is the beginning.

Others will not look after it.

Do not tire, as it will be disappear

like a shooting star in the dark of the night.

Me and a drop of water.

Me and a drop of sweat.

Me and a drop of blood.

Dreaming to become a drop in a river   

that flows even in the sea,

that remains river even when it kisses waves of freedom.

A river, in a sea.

Is this only a dream?

Life began out of a dream.