Autumn scattered

drive me home

fade me away
take me to the northern lights

or to the eastern grass,

from the lonely lands

to the bitter sands..

drive me home
on wheels of hope

that buries my hands

Nothing but more than November

Nothing but November

Nothing but November

Three dots...

.......


No bird,

had ever guided me

to the depth of this land:

I grew,

by myself,

from the gloom of this earth, like a wild flower,

next to the filthy mud of a slim river,

forever devoid of gardener.

And it is so that some,

are such regarding me:

“He lives off-

our belongings and  earnings.

And he dares breathing, exhaling-

the malodorous air of his breath

in the pure air of our field.”

Except that,

the truth, the fact is

when they disembarked in this land,

the one who received them

with wide open arms,

with open arms,

was I.

Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani

The poem "..."  was first published in The Dirges of The Earth (Marsieyeh-haye Khak), 1969 Tehran.

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