Anxious, sad, agitated,
her face uncovered, her head unveiled,
unmindful of the law or policeman
demanding “covering and concealment,”
her eyes two grapes
plucked and squeezed by the times
to fill a hundred barrels with blood,
mad, really mad,
a stranger to herself and others,
in an oblivion impenetrable by the flood,
a particle of dust adrift in the wind,
without purpose or destination,
lost, speechless, bewildered,
a corpse without a grave.
On her neck wearing a necklace of curses and tears,
a pair of boots tied together
belonging to a dead soldier.
I asked her, “why?” She smiled.
My son, poor child, on my shoulders,
hasn’t taken off his boots, yet.
By Simin Behbahani
Source: A Cup of Sin