I write, I cross out, searching for what I’ve lost
words for turbulent thoughts.
I scratch my skull with fingers like bones
trying to untangle the braided yarn.
In the dust rising in my head
the colors of your face have faded.
I squeeze my tired eyelids
trying to see what remains.
I want to remember you who changed to a cloud
on the far away sea.
How shall I recognize you
in this scattered fog?
Is this the tired wind I hear breathing
or the sound of your voice in the street?
I must know who it is and what he is saying,
that I may prepare an answer.
What is this hubbub below the surface of my mind?
Unlike foam I don’t breath with joy on a turbulent sea.
I can’t fold and stack them in a closet:
for your fleeing memories I have no remedy.
“What do you want from me,” you ask.
You should ask, what I wanted.
From my heart the desires drained
before I wanted.
Simin Behbahani’s English Translations from the book entitled A Cup of Sin Courtesy of Syracuse University Press
