● The Creeping Shadow
Behind you.
Slowly,
descending the stairs,
it creeps.
Through every room,
peering in—
even into the kitchen,
where the teacup
waits on the table.
Softly, softly,
the steam dissolves
in the quiet solitude of the house.
Impatiently,
you descend the stairs
into the kitchen.
Take a seat.
Sip the bitter tea.
And stare sadly
at the plates,
the dirty glasses,
the ashtray.
The curtain
continues to sway.
● Shattered Sky
I trace the mosaic of tiles
across the yard.
Toward the tree—
moonlit shards
fall from the branches.
An apple.
In certain corners of the evening,
the yard falls
into itself,
swallowing my sight.
Through
the bare branches,
at the edge of
your pale eyes—
inside a glass,
fish
tumble through
the sky.
A shallow puddle.
In a corner of the yard,
the sun.
It is rusted.
The sun.
Piece by piece,
it 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,
sealing the gaps
around the windows.
The sound of wings
spreads across the ceiling,
fading among
the plaster flowers.
The ceiling yawns—
shining pebbles
scatter
onto our shoulders.
You return from the night.
Your hand
glides across the mirror.
Hair.
You sit—
here,
always.
A slice of sky
falls
onto 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,
from the edge of the table.
The day’s last light
falls,
spinning,
beside the leg of the chair.
● Wandering Shadow
As always,
amid 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 across my skin.
Amid steam and smoke,
they flicker
in the corner of the window.
Then, slowly, gently,
they 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,
a distant chime.
Echoes drift
beneath these ancient arches.
A gaze fixed
on hands as delicate as flower petals,
on shattered vessels,
on fragile metal,
against the wall
where memories linger.
A distant sound
tells a story of treasure.
From the traveler’s trunk,
a delicate veil
unfurls gracefully.
Antiquities
from long-forgotten eras,
carried forward
through hopes and fears.
● Isfahan II
Time—
naked and exposed.
It pauses.
One by one,
on the steps,
like a curtain.
Between the hunting grounds,
the clamor—
of horses,
of gazelles
standing on the steps.
With time,
the wind blows.
And the gazelles
vanish
into the folds
of the curtain.
● Isfahan III
In endless semicircles,
a steady rhythm.
Across copper vessels,
seat by seat—
ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.
Lost within the intricate curves
of the muqarnas,
beneath the crescent
of your eyebrow,
inside a plaster arch,
falling onto
the weathered stone floor.
The profile of the dome
is symmetrical—
on the surface of the water,
and in the mane of a stallion
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, 2004.