Tag: Iranian poetry
What counted were my widowed cousin / holding her own in a foreign land, / and the grit to say no / to what is hurled—words, glances, bullets, all.
a wounded man drags his one-legged body home from the war through the depths of winter to describe the sighting of the horse to his village.
But no one can / hold a hope so long—there’s relief.
because I hate your every-now-and-then anthems, / because I hate the smell of your socks in the stone mihrabs.