Don't talk to me about the stars. Here the sky drips blood on faces. The moon, the reddened red, stands close to the blistered sorrow swallowing those faces whole. Shall we flee? What fleeing, my dear? The escape was the mother with her shredded chest, wondering where her daughter was. Her daughter was torn to pieces in the midst of what was left of home.
Where is the escape, my dear? When a father held a handful of filthy dirt in his hands instead of the rainbow pride of his teenage son; where to escape, my dear? When the 12-day-old wound added 12 years on our shoulders, where to escape, my darling? Our laughter is fire and smoke rises from the body of our broken lips.
My little girl, my sweetheart, is wounded, you know? The Iran of my soul is bleeding and I have nothing but this rubbish to kiss on her cuts.
Where are the wings soaked in the light of swallows? Where is the blue mirror of youth? Why are we all old? What is my little girl doing among us old people with broken bones? Crying blood for you isn't enough, my dear thousands-year-old land. You bleed, I'll be buried in your naked blood. Will the blood of the old youth of this country eventually blossom into tulips for your black and blue smile?
YOU ARE READING
The Fig Tree
PoetryA series of a teenager's mental secretions, living through the distorting lenses of a bell jar. Inspired by Sylvia Plath.
