Fariba Amini
Nothing takes me
from the butterflies of my dreams
to my reality:
not dust and not fire. What
will I do
without roses from Samarkand? What
will I do in a
theater that burnishes the singers with its lunar
stones? Our
weight has become light like our houses
in the faraway
winds. We have become two friends of the strange
creatures in the
clouds … and we are now loosened
from the gravity
of identity’s land. What will we do … what
will we do
without exile, and a long night
that stares at
the water? — Mahmoud Darwish