Poems on Politics
Hands in Tehran
My dark stained small hands
that peeled fresh walnuts and
saved the white flesh
for marble pyramids
have since whitened
in their longing
for a cherry tree
to climb.
I look back at the roads
cluttered with broken pyramids
dried nails of dahlia petals
and crushed earrings of cherries.
Afraid of becoming robed
in black like a crow
with the fingers and face of a woman,
How can I go home?
Note - The two lines in italics are from F. Farrokhzad.
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