A Poem

Walking

Payam Fotouhiyehpour

Tehran is a night

Night is a heavy-hearted smile between your days

I put the old shawls on the wind

and an alarm hat on my head

I've become immune of this bitter coldness

My bones are not left no more emptied amongst the simple sketch of the most ashamed rotten tree of the garden

A seal on my lips I have fixed on your sight the eyes that are winking the pale yesterdays of amnesia

It is night that I don't see anything and this moon still in its hanging curved way aged is panting to slip again

and the cries of any moment a fall that pours in its empty dried sandy gorge

No light leaks out and this total blindness of the remained anguish in the frame of the tomorrow's gates sees the Jesus

who put a hat on his head and his shawl on the wind and in the wound under his wishbone still the dry and bitter coldness fingers this skeptic winter

and the moon on its hanged orbit is hanged or not it's frosted in its milky womb it's coagulated, with the sky integrated, looks like a mirror sprinkles light on my body

I am stuck between two days of your days just here in the middle of the night that aged of my nightmares' race coldly and tightly is like a long suddenly-awakening

and my open eyes that have forgotten that remained scary staring in front of their blindness remained forgotten waiting for the Jesus who gives light but from a shadow of a rotten tree from he-looks-like-not-coming

so I was blessing the spite of my suffering in the gullet of you who are shouting it was worth in any way you cover my name under hands of this silence

Searching you I traced this moon and reached to the rotten garden of this outskirt

but I'm stuck in those two days do not believe that I've got rotten it looks like that I don't work well still after seeing you I want to breath the other years but

the air doesn’t remain in the memory

The breath gets short by past I'm chocked and blind and deaf I was left to see what this stranger is saying in my poem

he was a peasant from faraway looking for the lost address asking me or asking for Fatollah maybe he has some whey as a souvenir for his wife's uncle I didn’t ask

my poem is full of the harmless people's traffic

pieces of my heart are cold now of this volcano of boredom of infinite days are divided with every igneous race of a stone and have taken the hands of a little city we were crossing through the fire streams

until upcoming of any Saturday Tehran is a night full of smiles that I can write its days only in the tired steps of these subways

Say hello to Jesus if you pass that way

but I stay here Italo

You will go and reach Jesus and will not find the rotten tree whose shadow got nailed on your hands so you are not to write again

You found that life was not short but still it is not possible to read a new secret of what it is and pass

I remained and advise you to these days

to the earth and to the sky and all are trashes

and the city is an old nag that didn’t give a ride to anyone

Jesus chose this chemical Jerusalem by mistake

and the stubborn Judas searched in no more unsaid secret

everything was explicit

only we had neither a cross nor a hill

and we talked and we forgot that he is the one who came the way to Jerusalem by mistake to die between your days in a night that undoubtedly has been stuck like a long awakening he even forgets that he is awakened