The Butterfly Cycle


A larva growing rapidly,
A butterfly to become
Flying free, propelling air.
Those fair, innocent wings that I shall soon wear
When I am to be wed to the moonlight, the honey
And the nectar of the flowers.
A dream so fragile, I must not err.

I hid it.
I hid it all.
My growth is hampered by fear
Unleashing those wings would disturb my man,
Here he rests; obsessing over video games
And humans’ lifespans.
I must always shrink for him to tolerate
My wisp of hair—and the mediocre life
Inside the cracked pictures’ frames.

Love is a season in between,
It will eat you up, even if you didn’t
Allow its rainy gales to be seen.
Honey, haven’t you yet learned that only the rain
Will render the plants with intense green?

I have suffered the cruelty of his changing moods
Flat and hidden,
I cannot move without dislodging the weight of a decade
Of a love-forbidden,
Of a man who lived and died
In me—lonely, unreal and forgiven.

I falter,
A lonely butterfly facing gusts.
It hurts to become,
But when the air pushes under those wings,
May there be nothing left but a handful of dust.

Now I could only fancy the thought of him:
Running through the roads,
Escaping the weights of reality, foolishly happy, not
Including me.

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،وُلِدَ كبَقيّة الأطفالِ
لم تُشرِقَ الشمسُ مِن مَغربِها حِينَ وُلِدَ ولا اهتَزتِ الجِبَالُ
،خَرجَ لهذه الحياةِ مِن رَحمِ صَحراءٍ قاحِلةٍ
،لا نَباتَ فيها ولا مَاءً
صَحراءً عَشِقَت السَرابَ وشَرِبتِ المَوتَ أقداحًا حتى الإغمَاءِ
،وِلِدَ كَبقيةِ الأطفالِ
ورِثَ جسدًا يَسجنُ روحَه ومَلامِحُ أمَواتٍ
،اخُتيرَ له اسمٌ وهوية،ٌ وكُبِلَ بِبضعِ أغَلالٍ
،غِلًا التفَ حَول رقَبتِه ليَخنِقَهُ
وغِلًا حَولَ يَدَيه يَجتَرهُ أينَما ذَهبَ

وُلِدَ كبقية الأطفَالِ
رَتَلوا في أذُنهِ اليُمنَى الأذَانَ
،وصَبوا فَوقَهُ المَاءَ ليَتوبَ
رَغمَ أنهُ بعدُ لم يُذنِبْ
،وُلِدَ كبَقيّة السُجناءِ
خُدَّرَ وريدُهُ وخُيّطَ فَمَهُ وصُمّتْ أذُنَاهُ
قَتَلهُ الجُبَناءُ
وهو بَعدُ لم يَكُنْ

تَكلَتْ أكوامُ بَشرٍ حَولهُ
،رآهم مُقَيدَةٌ أعنَاقَهُم وأقدامَهُم بأغلالٍ مِن حَديدٍ
يُصَلّونَ للخُبزِ والنُورِ الذي لا يُبصِرونَ
،رجالًا ونِساءً تمرُعَليهِم صورُ حَياةٍ لا يَعرِفُونَ
يُصلّونَ ويُرتِلونَ خَوفًا مِن الحُلمِ والسَعيّرِ
،قَتَلوا أنفُسَهُم أحيَاءً
خَوفًا مِنَ المَصيرِ

تَكَتَلوا أقوامًا وأقوامًا
يَأكُلونَ ويُصَلّونَ ويَقتُلونَ ويُنجِبُونَ
ولا بِشيءٍ يَشعُرونَ
تَكَتَلوا أجمَعَ أمَامَهُ، أكداسًا مَحبُوسِينَ

،ارتَطَموا بِهِ ولكِنَهُ ما ارتَجَفَ
انعَزَلَ مِن بَينِهم وبِنَفسهِ التَحَفَ

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The Seventh Room

Mary Magdalene in the Cave

‘The ending is water’
Whispered a crow
As I step slow—Out, out of the asylum
My body, which isn’t mine, dragged all way
Needles falling on the grey floor,
Some I took off—
Others were inserted for too long
Hideous as a monster,
The survivor of the one thousand years bloodshed
Finally managed an escape, with a book and papers’ shreds
At the end of the aisle of patients’ beds,
I know there is a staircase leading to an exit
I ran downward.

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امرأة الكُثبان


في أرضي، لن ترى إلا الفحمَ والكُثبانَ
لا بدايةً لها، ولا نهايةً
رملٌ فوق رملٍ، وآلهةٌ من الحَجَر والغِربانِ
في أرضي، ستسمع فقط عن جنات عدنٍ وشقائقُ النُعمانِ
هُنَا، حيث اللازمانُ واللامكانُ
هُنَا، حيث عَبَدْتُ الحَجرَ

وحيدةً تمامًا في الفلكِ
لا سماء زرقاء ولا قمرَ
،أرضي، هذه التي اكتسح السوادُ رَملَها
وجفت نسائُها ولاقت حَتفَها
أرضُ الرَمادِ والفَحمِ
أرضٌ ملأتها الذُكور أُمَمًا
أرضُ الصدأ والموتى
أموطنًا أنتِ أم منفى؟

لأَلفِ سَنة، لم يمر نجمٌ في سَمائي
ولم تسمع الآلهةُ أيًا من الأغنياتِ والأماني
حَفرَتُ، فَدُفِنتُ
تَسلقتُ من قَبلْ، وعلى الصَليّبِ تَعلقتُ
لم اقرأ في أرضِ الكُثبانِ
لا توراةَ ولا إنجيلَ ولا قرآنَ

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a dream

،حَلِمتُ بالأمسِ بِأنَ الأمُنيةَ قَد ماتَتْ
وبِأنَ الأغُنيةَ قَد عاشَتْ

حَلِمتُ بالأمسِ بأنَ هَذهِ الحَياةُ كانَت تَسقُطُ مِن أعلى كالمُذنَبِ

منِي تَقتَربُ وبِكَ تَحتَرِقُ

،حَلِمتُ بِغيابِ الأمسِ
وبِطُلوعِ الشَمسِ

،حَلِمتُ بالسَماءِ وبِسُكونِ المَطرِ
حَلِمتُ بِكَ وكُنتَ أنتَ السَفَرُ

،كُنتَ أنتَ وكُنتُ أنا
وخَلفنا القَمرَ

مِن أيّ انتِظَارٍ قَد جِئتَ؟

،خَشِيتُ أن استيقِظَ قَبلَ أن أعرِفَكَ
،خَشِيتُ أن تَغيبَ وأن أفقِدِكَ
،خَشِيتُ الحُلمَ
وبِإنَ استيقَاظِيَ سَيهجُرُكَ

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A Man on a Cliff


I am a blocked volcanic crater
I burn my own skin
Going dry, going slim
Going all the way to him
I am the waiting siren
At the end of your swim.

I am the stone that kept you
On a cliff
You’d think you’d fall from a breeze,
Or a passing whiff—
But darling, not even a firestorm
Could unleash your tethered feet.

Suffocated in vain—
I prayed for the droplets of your rain
To slowly dissipate my heat
And cover me in mist
And all the feelings I missed.

The man of charcoal and ashes,
Still hanging on a cliff
Blind, deaf, and stiff.

Darling, the lavas are stepping closer
To burning you,
Burning me.


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The Passion of Ishtar

passion of Ishtar

Of Ishtar and the transfiguration of Tiamat

Of a land between two rivers, sing I
I—The divine coronated of the eight stars
Etched by the men from Mars,
I—a star Venus
Alone I stood ahead of Cetus.

Carved in clays and stones,
For the sinuous serpent had me lacking bones.
In a chest of seashells
In Gold—
Gold and skin mold,
I stood.
My feet of stones shattered
Of the standoff, what mattered?
I wondered.
I am near collapsing.

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Via Dolorosa

Via DolorosaAngels or demons
Demons, must it be
Had a place in my head
They build it;
Stone by stone
To atone—they said.
Far behind the prayers and the olive trees
Hidden in burdens and tears.
The House of the Madness they called it.

I look upon its hideous wall: a mural for the sick
Not a foothold.
Not a prayer.
Voices I hear, crumbles at the wall
(Silence the mad, only then you will be glad—
Climb the path of sorrows by morrow)

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A Faithful Worshipper

A Faithful Worshipper - Pygmilaon

Among the men in white I walked
Seven and hundreds of times I walked.
First, I crawled;
Then, I marched
And at last, I dead-walked;
A humming corpse driven by the crowds
Around the black house of the men in white.

Cracked feet, skin dry
Bleeding feet, bleeding eyes—
Eyes of the whites studied me
For I must be among the black maids;
I must walk as they walk.
Sing, songs of the dead whites,
As they sing
I must follow.

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Where do all Iranians Go?

persebolies book coverrrFree countries believe they could offer equal society rights as long as the country is one hundred present neutral in matters of religion. But religious countries have to adapt a religious system (whether be Sharia or any that are based on religious laws). Religion quite clearly states of the importance of following God’s written words. In the first countries, man might feel the freedom to be, but he often feels the disconnection of his reality. The materialistic of his society, a contractual society that smells like cigarettes and capitalist junk food. In the latter countries, man feels no differences between himself and those around him, but he suffers from the loss of freedom of choice. People react differently to their countries; Some might ridicule both, some would rather freedom over anything, some think that a theocratical system is what will save us. Only few, however, can understand what it cost to have a civilization and to distinguish their own morals out of what have already been set to them, only few can understand the disparity of being a woman living in any country. Marjane Satrapi is one of these rare people…

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