It's the End of the Line
It's the end of the line, and still you sit,
too tired, too broken down, to take another step.
O ancient flax, witness of my decline:
in my fingers you rot and fall apart.
You strain to live, but you are more tired
and broken down than you believe.
O heart, from you no desire can sprout.
You are a seed in the dead soil
of the dry desert of my body.
Wishing to fly, you can only utter an envious sigh.
Every breath you breathe is the air of confinement.
O yellow-faced autumn, with what colors or perfumes
do you wait to greet the happy birds?
Your battered rooftop deserves
no more than an ill-omened owl to make its nest.
They have turned to straw those twin braids
that were once like two bouquets of violets.
O spine, do not rebel against the burden of my body
while I have not escaped life,
while you have not escaped my body.
By Simin Behbahani
Source: A Cup of Sin