Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

April 29, 2004

canto ii.

They’ve found skulls again
— we’ve been here longer than we knew.
One hundred thousand years, those tombs
of thought, wombs of reason,
       desiccated remains of passion
       and memory,
have slid beneath the dancing
continents, been taken up
by the movement of flowers —
clutched in hands. Wir wissen nichts
von diesem Hingehn, das nicht mit uns teilt.
One hundred thousand years ago,
man was still man, only moreso.
      And so the weeping olive flesh.
And yet I did not comfort her,
sparrow of کرمانشا˛ who gave me
the stories of Taq-e-Bostan.
I merely drew caricatures
of American politicians with the children,
on the carpet where I left my heart
in Iran. I should have known better —
discussing politics with nine-year-olds
who pillowed my head in the evening
       so I slept.
I gave them bitter cherries, honey, saffron
— all the best they had to offer me, then I left
and disappeared, not to write
a letter for two years. But ah,
their calligraphy!
I am ashamed — and still
I eat their bread and lemon tea,
which they brought to me
from clay ovens of their citadel
       broken before dawn,
       before they woke me,
and I recall that their father said nothing to me.

Today I worked in my garden, read the freebie papers, walked around half the sea wall, and went out for Szezuan. It was good but I find I have nothing to write about. Today I learned that my cat falls into a psychotic trance at the sound of a tapped drinking glass...

tink, tink, tink.

Posted by Delire at April 29, 2004 11:05 PM
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