The sound of
all swollen words
February 14, 2005
iranian.com
In the winter 1987 myself and a friend decided
to visit Forough
at Zahir-al-Doleh. 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
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