Spiral

کلماتت را بالا ببر، نه صدایت را. باران است که گل‌ها را می‌رویاند، نه رعد و برق

Spiral

                                      کلماتت را بالا ببر، نه صدایت را. باران است که گل‌ها را می‌رویاند، نه رعد و برق

Red helium rises as
the atmosphere collects fear.
Children cling to strings
of thoughtlessness while
their parents cry.

A mother clutches her sons' index fingers:
look at the sky, it's disappearing,
she says,
look how we're drifting away.
Hold my hand and let us run.

Dust covers our land, 
our history. Memories live on,
they wander abroad —
they rise from the ashes, 
with time they wash away the blood.

The stains ferment
in the hearts of the living,
the pain lives and breathes
like the ghosts hovering
over the forgotten cities.

Photo by Maryam Zandi