Send me a picture of our house,
Our old house that we abandoned,
Without a farewell, with no hope of return.
Entrusting it with our youth and a piece of ourselves,
Thirty years ago, she with her black hair, asked Friend;
For the sake of God, only one picture...
Friend is still promising.
Every night, Sister sees the house in her dreams
With fig, pear and red berry trees like umbrellas,
With blooming purple irises in spring,
And a rocket-shaped fish pool
Where a turtle drowns.
Her dreams are full of Mother with moist eyes,
Whispering a melody from behind her sewing machine,
And a hen laying eggs by her winding hand.
In a corner of Sister's dreams, Father with a secret smile,
Ploughing the dirt in the garden
For planting summer greens,
Or shoveling winter snow off the roof.
Sister laments, the white hairs growing on her temples;
All I asked for was a picture of the house...
Which house? A passing traveler says...it can't be found,
They knocked them down, years ago.
A poem by a refuge from Iran