In the winter 1987 myself and a friend decided to visit . That proved to be a frightening experience on its own but we did manage to spend a few seconds with Forough and this poem is for her, and for that day, in the memory of her death (14th February 1967).
Let the rain come down on dried acacias on this gathering of silence at this doorstep of Swollen Words I have travelled far and under the skin of my eyes the blue broken waves of pain have come to shore to the final rest. Within the four walls of our house's yard I walked back and forth and recited the Swollen Words in the lonely rhythm of each and every moment until the sun sat behind the repeated history of each and every day thinking of the wind, the rain, the snow and the buried kindness of your hands and all the words swollen by the darkness of this eternal night And I have arrived here in this resting house in this corner of hail behind this door of separation touching the thirst of this heavy soil in the absence of the lamp, the crevice and the happy alley
Let the rain come down on this land of no ends on these houses signposted by words of gone sharing the weight of this fallen roof In the dry echo of these singing crows and on the hands of all trees who whisper the colours of four seasons for the eyes that listens to the eternity of time betraying the sound of steps dream-walking this endless land Ah you the sound of all Swollen Words of pain Swollen Words of love Forgive my empty hands Forgive my empty hands