This poem is written in the memory of my brother,
Masoud, who was killed by the Shah’s armed men in 1978. He was nineteen and was the first martyr of the
west of Tehran, Salsabil Mahaleh. Maybe,
only maybe, it was better that he was killed then, since knowing his ceaseless,
fearless thirst for freedom and justice he would have otherwise been one of the
first to be executed by Khomeini’s murderers.
The dream of a tear
drop: in memory of Masoud
First He was a word,
a beautiful
word,
drowned in
tears,
shed in
loneliness,
in the cold dark
of nothingness
shedding birth
to a dream.
And life
started from that dream,
from the desire
to be known.
from the need to
admire its beauty.
I became his
image.
Free. A loose
chain.
Creator of my
own destiny.
Now I am in
chains
in a desert of scourging
sun and burning sands;
they denied my lips
the water
to relieve my
thirst.
in which to
swim in.
in order to
grow.
Here, my dried
throat and splintered lips give birth
to a new dream – my thirst can only be
quenched
when there is
no fear,
when it can
breathe in the not-yet freedom,
when laughter
is born,
when living in
love is neither a crime nor a dream.
Me and a drop
of water.
Me and a drop
of sweat.
Me and a drop
of blood.
And when we
meet as dreamers in our dreams,
Then me, a drop
in a river,
storming and
flooded in spring,
ferocious and
fearless, soft and gentle,
covered in colored
flowers that float and kiss
The hard,
thorny lips of the dark rocks
between themselves
and the sea.
But it was the
roses,
red roses that
took bullets
from the rocks
into their hearts.
No hatred.
Dreamers, in
search of love.
One flying
bullet from the dark corners of gravediggers explodes his heart.
Blood rushing
free - for a moment it seemed a rose had blossomed,
a red rose
hidden in his chest, as to surprise his beloved.
Silence
covering his face, he looks down at his shattered heart,
kissed many
times by his beloved, now womb to a melting bullet.
Or no, only a
dark hole burning into his back.
The bullet flew
out in cowardice.
He falls to his
knees, right hand touching the hole,
blood forcing
itself from burnt veins, pouring to kiss his hand.
He looks, the
birth of a smile on his bloody lips blossoming.
The mission of
love is accomplished.
For him life was
not worth living without freedom and freedom, worth dying for.
He could do no
more.
No one could do
more.
He falls back.
Hits the solid
ground.
Stares at the
blue sky, his brown eyes not forced closed by the staring sun.
In red, chest
and earth are as one, had become one
Red is the color
of love.
Red is the
color of courage, for lovers have to be courageous as they are one.
Red is the
color of one who wants to live life to its fullest.
* * *
The stormy waves
of an endless river
smash themselves
against the rocks,
red roses at
front,
bleeding lips
kissing the hot barrels of the guns.
These kisses grow
wild flowers,
water them with
the tears of those once stone.
No lover can
resist the call of love.
Finally,
finally,
no more bullets
breaking.
Rocks break
away with the fearless fire of love,
the river
rushes into the open sea of freedom.
Freedom! At
last, living in love.
But the dream, realized,
is the beginning.
Others will not
look after it.
Do not tire, as
it will be disappear
like a shooting
star in the dark of the night.
Me and a drop
of water.
Me and a drop
of sweat.
Me and a drop
of blood.
Dreaming to
become a drop in a river
that flows even
in the sea,
that remains
river even when it kisses waves of freedom.
A river, in a
sea.
Is this only a
dream?
Life began out
of a dream.
