Tehran

Tehran

The wind blows cold from Mount Damavand, the blue peak
aged with memory, white with the chill of autumn,
whispers welcome to the dear ravaged heart, bringing
rest. Brings me caresses, a voice that still would speak
low, so softly in the long long rains of summer.
Though far under the stars, I know you are walking

in the Bazaar-é Kaffashha, looking for shoes;
return triumphant to your café, where Persian
music plays. You write to me of the caves near where
insolent armies clashed and empires fell. And you,
you smile to me across the mountains of Gilan,
the dust from the Dasht-é Kavir still in your hair

still in my mind this desire for you, my Iran,
more precious than princes. The earth that made you, cries.
You my passionate, your face in this photograph,
smiling, captive in the gardens of Esfahan,
the white chador could not take the fire from your eyes,
could never tame you, will never silence your laugh.

My Iran: your poetry, your people, deepest heart
healing the broken and the bruised this September,
a year of rains; and you who made me what I am,
hold me in your memory, and though the seasons start
to fail and finish me, I will still remember
you, in your yellow high heeled shoes, my azizam.