● The Creeping Shadow
Behind you.
Slowly,
Descending the stairs,
It creeps.
Throughout all the rooms,
Peering in—
Even into the kitchen,
Where is it located on the table?
The Teacup
Softly, softly.
The steam dissolves.
In the quiet solitude of the house.
Impatiently,
You descend the staircase.
Into the kitchen.
Please take a seat in the chair.
Sip the bitter tea.
And stare.
Sadly, at the plates,
The dirty glasses.
The ashtray.
The curtain continues to sway.
● Shattered Sky
Mosaic of AnglesI trace the yard’s mosaic tiles.
To the tree—
Moonlit shards fall from branches.
An apple.
In some aspects of this evening,
Yard Falls
Into a descent.
Swallowing my sight.
Through
Bare branches.
At the edge of
Your pale eyes—
Within a glass,
Fish
Tumble
The sky.
Shallow puddle.
In a yard corner,
The sun.
It’s rusted.
The sun.
Piece by piece,
Falls from the crow’s beak.
The crow flies—
Water sheds its skin.
The fish.
Circle the puddle.
The smell of soot.
Fills the yard.
Fixing window gaps.
The sound of wings.
Extends across the ceiling.
Fading among plaster flowers.
The ceiling yawns—
Shiny Pebbles
Scatter onto shoulders.
You return from the night.
Gliding your hand over the mirror.
Hair.
You sit—
Here,
Always.
A Slice of Sky
It falls on the table.
● Longing for Your Presence
From the heart of summer’s noon—
The midday sun blazes.
An echoing room.
Your absence is a leaf—
A piece of you,
Spinning, spinning.
Off the table’s edge.
The day’s last light.
Falls and spinning.
By the chair leg.
● Wandering Shadow
As always,
Amidst the antiques,
Her wide, inquisitive eyes
Fix on me.
As always,
I open the window—
A flake of snow lands on my shadow.
My restless, snowy shadow
Leaps from the room
And wanders through the labyrinth of alleys,
Her wide eyes
Lost in the maze,
As always…
● Windowpane Dreams
Your hands,
Weary roads,
Tangled on my skin.
Amidst steam and smoke,
They flicker
In the window’s corner,
Then slowly, gently,
Fall from the corner of my eye.
Onto the bus seat,
As night,
With its monotonous hum,
Lulls me to sleep.
● Isfahan I
Water…
Wind…
And an endless ascent.
Up endless stairs, through infinite time.
A traveler’s song and a distant chime,
The echoes that resonate through these arches are truly sublime.
A gaze fixed on hands as delicate as flower petals.
On shattered vessels and fragile metals,
Against the wall, where memories linger.
A distant sound narrates a story of treasure.
From the traveler’s trunk, a delicate veil unfurled gracefully.
Antiquities from long-forgotten eras,
Carried on through hopes and fears.
● Isfahan II
Time
Naked and exposed.
Pauses.
One at a time.
On the steps,
Like a curtain.
Between the Hunting Grounds
The clamor.
About Horses
Gazelles,
Standing on the steps,
With time,
The wind is blowing.
And the gazelles.
Vanish
Into the folds of the curtain.
● Isfahan III
In endless semicircles,
A steady rhythm.
On copper vessels, seat by seat,
Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.
Lost within the intricate curves of muqarnas,
Beneath the crescent of your eyebrow,
In a plaster arch,
Down onto the weathered stone floor.
The profile of the dome is symmetrical.
On the surface of the water,
And a stallion’s mane,
As it circles the arcades,
Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack.
Rasoul Moarek Nejad
From the poetry collection “Hand in the Hair of the Mirror” (Poems 1997-2003), published by Naghsh-e Mana Press in 2004.