Sanaz Davoodzadehfar
An island surrounded by an illusion of interlocking pipes,
Fire doesn’t end, a dead coral and trees breathe hard.
Ghostly trees go along the only path
The path that leads nowhere
The people are prisoners in working clothes, sleeping and eating
I lived far away at the age of twenty or more.
I surrounded by an illusion of interlocking pipes and the constant crows’ cowing.
The weather was either too hot or too cold
No rain for more than three hundred days
It rained madly for a day.
I lived far away surrounded by cloudy water, many codes
And stores enlarged by goods.
I abated my clothes, my weight and width,
The Damam* of my language and a castanet.
My words hovered in a circle removing its purpose.
Here some people continue to think about diet
To have a safe helmet
Fit their heads,
One can see love sporadically as well.
If you live here and you are twenty years old,
You will be sixty years old in one year.
(Damam: Drum: A drum with two cylindrical heads, its sides covered with animal skin, played with hands or sticks made of palm trees. This instrument, too, is played in the southern parts of Bushehr, Iran, specifically.)
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