"I see our poets
For years on end they spin cocoons
Like silkworms.
For year the sun of darkness shone
Blood came down instead of rain
Mud and lava until it reached our mouths.
It was then that among the mulberries of hope
The observant eye was able to detect
A movement ever so intricate among the branches.
In the mulberry orchards
In the cocoons of love
The have woven the words with silk threads.
So, we won't be naked
When we appear
In the glaring light of truth." [2]
I walk. It is past midnight. I can't stop walking. I turn around. I go up and down the room. I shut the southern window. The sound of passing cars and the flight of lifeless metal birds of MEHRABAD Airport is stifling. I walk. I keep walking, I can't stop walking.
I look out the northern window, at the darkness of Tehran, at Tehran studded with bright lights, diamond bits, against the backdrop of the majestic ALBORZ. A light or a sun in every house. I also have a sun in my heart. I feel this more than ever. I am hot; burning hot.
I open the window. The not so fresh air of Tehran brushes against my face. I feel as if I am in the arms of a city swallowed by brightness, facing the skies.
I grow wings. I jump and land in the pleats of the mountain range.
I walk. I walk among the inverted tulip. The scent of the brain of our young men and women raises the dead volcano even higher by the steps. The screams of Azidahak in chains can be heard through the rocks. Will he break the chains? Will he use the roots of youth to shine light everywhere? We walk and we walk, flushed by the scent of young brains.
More hopeful than every I sing at the foot of the mountain:
Take root, take root, take root!
Fill our hearts with light poppies!
Make freedom the word of the day!
What ever is the frame of this weakened imagination
Feed it to the fireplace of imagination,
Day by day make it a new day!
Take root, take root....
Every year the voice of our generation comes through louder and clearer. Last year it was the poetry and voice of
{Mohsen Namjoo} that I made a gift of to everyone that I saw. This year, it is Persepolis [3] that I am giving out. I am grateful to you intelligent existence. Grateful.
The sky turns golden. Damavand is in the field of vision. The silver moon rolls into the plains and a resolute sun goes up. I open my arms and hug the sun.
Behind the northern window, I am staring at the mountain peak and in the vestibules of my my heart there is a feast of the sun. I give this most precious of prizes, this sun born today, to Marjane. I shall be busy preparing prizes for a yet bigger feast next year.
Footnote
[1] A verse from Afsaneh, a poem by contemporary poet
{Nima Yushij} and the name of a book of poetry compiled by the late
{Mohammad Mokhtari}.
[2] By {Antonin Bershtuk}, from the book above.
[3] Name of an animation by
{Marjane Satrapi} and {Vincent Paronnaud}, based on a book of the same title by Marjane Satrapi.
Mohsen Namjoo WIKI. en
Namjoo: Aus dem Archiv: Zolf Bar Baad
Nima Yooshij WIKI. en
Mohammad Mokhtari WIKI. en
Marjane Satrapi WIKI. de
www.tehranavenue.com
