At the airport
Now what I have in my fist
Is this cramped land
Which is the right size of the palms of my hands
Inclined onto the slippery sunlight
And the sun is sulking, not on the speaking term with us,
The dream coming from the Lut desert is moving my fingers
The blowings stiffen my teeth
And the whirlwind from the sandy desert
Is blowing our home over.
You're gluing the torn-up pieces of my face to make me laugh?
How can I skip over your hands?
Precisely like the way you predicted that
A huge mass grave
To put the longest night to sleep
The sleep has migrated from our eyelids
Has covered the river bank
Drenched,
Torn- up lips!
Are you gluing the pieces of my face to make me laugh?
With scissors,
They're cutting something
Alphabet drooping on the soil
Vanished letters of our names
Had you forgotten them?
Through the zigzags,
Firm and stiff
In the middle of desert,
Spread
You've locked up my mother's breath!
Her footprints vanishing on the sand...
Are you gluing the torn-up pieces of my face to make me laugh?
No! ...
I won't be back
I won't return to the last street of Tehran
I left a single shoe here
For you
To put on
And follow me!
The outline is shaping on the horizon
It's the size of my fist
Landing exceeds 3 feet
The precise size of my hand!
* The Lut Desert is a desert in the South-east of Iran.
Rosa Jamali
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-last-street-of-tehran-translated-from-original-persian-to-english/
