Around the Month of July and Snow

The Moon in Our Way

We were walking
on the snow.

The moon, large,
blocked our way.

And still,
white, all white,
it kept falling.

Our hands
in our coat pockets,
we left the moon
in the snow.

In the darkness,
we continued on—

without shadow,
without snow,
without moon,
we.

Four Matchboxes

The cold tea
was replaced
for the third time.

A cold, grey light
filters through
the folds of the curtain,

falling
on a 3-by-4 photograph—
from an unknown age.

I return,

gazing into the eyes
of a child
running
through the room,

with all their toys—
which were only
four matchboxes.

Through the Glass

A plate full of apples,

a glass full of ice,

and you—

from the rim of this very glass,

staring straight into my eyes.

Endless Shadow

In the twilight,

you stand
with your back to the wind,

in your grandfather’s army coat,

with two buttons—
motionless eyes.

Grasshoppers swarm around you,

and your shadow

stretches

to the horizon.

Ink

Ink

runs
over the raven’s feathers,

and the tree—

its branches
on brown paper.

How suddenly

Eternity

takes shape

in a brief silence.

Fading Shadows

The moon,
through the branches of the pomegranate tree,

in the courtyard,

casts its shadow
over your henna-dyed hair.

Your hand trembles.

The comb
slips
from your dishevelled hair.

The moon and

Grandmother’s shadow,

in the plate,

in a smile of pomegranate,

fade.

Stony Gaze

Within the hollows
of his stone eyes,

always,

everything
is delayed—

even

the last flight
of a bird,

which was the final full stop
of the day.

Objects

Objects

are not like colours,

which are forgotten
in the darkness,

like your name.

Footsteps in the Corridor

The sound of footsteps
in the corridor

has turned
the leaves of the trees green

and the bodies
of the fish red.

The cat’s eyes

still

gleam.

The Sound of a Gunshot

The newspapers were asleep,

like the nightly song
of sparrows
that fall asleep
inside the cat’s eyes.

A gunshot rang out.

Mother,
in a panic,
bareheaded,
rushed out
into the street,

and the entire border
became the colour
of your boots.

Tomorrow,

the newspapers
will print the headline
in type smaller
than that of the summonses:

“Last night,
the sound of a bullet
died
beyond the border.”

In Persian, “sar baz” (سر باز, bareheaded) is separated by a space,

while “sarbaz” (سرباز) means “soldier”.

The poem plays on the visual and phonetic closeness of the two forms.

The Heat of the Afternoon

The sun

passes along the riverbank

and settles
on the edge of your hair.

And there is no blue.

The afternoon heat

brings sweat
to the lines
on your forehead.

You turn aside
from your path

and pass by.

An Unfinished Dream

A half-finished dream

A white bedsheet

Dishevelled hair

Puffy eyes

The lips’ stammer

that can never
pronounce
anything.

And the sun,

indifferent,

among the objects,

follows its ever-present trace

all the way
to the chair.

While the tea is brewing,

you open the window.

As far as the eye can see,

it is the month of Tir,

no one,

a face.

You return,

fold the sheets.

The tea has brewed,

and you forget
your presence in the house.

Every Night

Every night,

a hand—no!

a wind—no!

a strange unease

that shifts
the names of things.