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Come home

By Jason Allen
July 2, 2002
The Iranian

I contacted you before I left for Iran to visit for the first time in 27 years since I was born in Tehran and left when I was a year old. I have not yet finished my pictures or stories from Iran (expect some breathtaking photos) but wanted to send you this poem I composed yesterday while sitting in the evening high up in the Alborz mountains above Darabad Valley as a teaser:

When you touch the ground with your hand what do you feel?
When you look up at the clouds in rows what is written there?

When you sit on the mountain top with rows of copper rock,
Layers of sweeping rubble shaking up to snow crescendos,
What city is at your back?

Where you hike do shepards walk thier flock in designs
Playing reed flutes from the passion of their separation?

Do men with strange blue eyes and lilting mountain tounge
Stop you and press wild sweet & sour ribas into your palm?

When the Iranian renaissance comes the hills will weep
Bol Bol's fluttering sorrow, darvish finger's slow strings crying
Love's language that the least of the real humans know
When they drink wine their heart beats out Hafez, Saadi,

Come home

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