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 On a dusty mountain path September 28, 2002 The Iranian On a dusty mountain path the sound of revving motorbikes breaks the river's flow scarring forever these mountains that have no where else to go. I feel for them these rocky spires that for so long have held heads high, but now are being trampled daily, by the immutable undertow of swarms of people from below, On this path where lovers meet looking to find a way to repeat the ancient dance of courtship now so sadly banned by whip, I see a certain sadness, replete with desire:doomed, incomplete. Young women full of life covered in garb they do not like, attempt with certain ingenuity to reveal, even if slightly, their skin and hair those proud qualities of every girl. Young men with gelled heads held high unaware of betraying a hidden sigh exposed through the opening of their dark and yearning eye. The vendors and cafes try to make a living from this collective cry, of a youth that wants, nothing short of the sky, But has to content itself with a walk up a dusty path, that turns around and comes back.
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