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Throbs in our throats
In memory of Farhad

By Mersedeh Khozin
September 3, 2002
The Iranian

Everything will be forsaken then,
The silence of the heavens will be set apart
and forever apart
the broken-down fields of the finished world,
and apart
the silence of patriotism.
In the air a fleeing host of birds.
And you shall see the rising sun
dumb as a demented eye-pupil
and calm as a watching beast.

But keeping vigil in banishment
because that night
you cannot sleep, you toss
as the tree with its thousand leaves
and at dead of night I speak as the tree;

Do we know the drifting of the years,
the years over crumpled memories?
Do we understand the wrinkle
of transience?
Do we comprehend your
care-gnarled hands?
Do we know the name of passion?
Do we know what pain treads the unlifting
darkness with your melodic breath?
The night, the cold, the pit.
Do we know the convict's head
twisted askew?

The sun rose. Sticks of trees blackening
in the infra-red of the wrathful sky.

So you depart.
Facing devastation
a man is walking confidently.
He has nothing but everything.
He has his shadow.
He has his love.

Evening came, and night petrified
above you with its mud.
Beneath closed eyelids
you do not cease to guard this procession,
these fevered shrubs, their tiny twigs.
Leaf by leaf, the glowing little wood.
Once, long-long ago Paradise stood in our land.
In half-sleep, the renewal of pain;
to hear its gigantic trees.

Home -- you wanted finally to get home-
You ghastly shadow in the courtyard.
Crushed silence,
and already they are coming, they are calling you,
you fans, and already crying,
and embracing you, stumbling-
the ancient order opens to readmit you.
You lean out on windy stars.
You sing out your heart.
Your nearness throbs in our throats.

You do not speak our words,
the human speech.
There are birds alive
who flee now heartbroken
under the sky,
under the fiery sky.
Forlorn poles stuck in a glowing field,
and our immovably burning cages.
You do not understand the human speech,
and you do not speak our language.
You voice is more homeless than the word.
You have no words.

A dusty mist tumbles down
through the air-
a tower's body emits sounds.

You are nowhere in our worth.
How empty the music is.
A piano chair, a garden chair left outside.
Among sharp stones your clangorous shadow.
You are tired.
You jut out from earth.

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To happier times
A tribute to Farhad
By Jahanshah Javid


By Mersedeh Khozin

Tell me news

This is the stone

Should have done laundry
But started scribbling in my notebook


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