by jamh

The ruler who is weak
has had three names:
the Accuser, the Fool
and the Masker of Truth.

Arrogantly he declares
"I bring you your God"
ignorant of the place
he himself has stepped forth.

You can imagine then what
Zoroastrians of old
thought of the longest night
of the year of the World.

You saw them dancing in
colorful and clean clothes
setting ablaze the land
in joy, in wine, in fun

burning away their ills
reddening their cheeks
giving birth, at Alburz, at dawn
to the resplendant Sun.

What beautiful imagery is lost
is now replaced with moans,
a martyr in every abode
of every flattened stone.

It's as if the opposite
of their beliefs came to be,
as if the ruler of Night
spat back his own curse.

The only flames still bright,
instead of spiritual light,
now fuel tanker and car
and fill coffin and purse.



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