by Nassy Fesharaki
On my wall a poster talks loud, shouts
Pictures of the leaders; in La Paz.
Now I read Taymourtash, of Iran.
In times laugh, and cry, as drunk.
Obvious Problem …I know both
If not more…
That is why Che comes and shakes my hand
Also the minister at his time; Arguedas
I am bridge and friend with both sides.
Narcotic of knowledge, awareness are my wings
I fly into time… Pizarro, Ferdowsi, Keykavoos
What a mix…
There are books and authors like needles and threads
There are corks and bottles, and the light in keyholes.
Like Arzhang I go round, large canvas…lots of pains
I draw face of young boy on stones
And Shirin falls in love
With Khosrow…leaves Farhad who commits suicide…
Birds outside on trees sing sad songs to inform “dusk is night.”
I am held in a cell, KGB’s in Khojand; young men are in blood.
Call me if so you wish…”out of mind; crazy”.