From the collection of

The songs of refugees

by: freidoun gilani

Refugee 2

 

Hallo Mr. Soil!

Hallo Mrs. Stone!

Which flank of the earth from,

Have you both emerged?!

I mean you two,

That rush to refugees,

Like a frozen wind,

And like a cold mountain,

you burn our gloomy voice,

beside a bunch of papers and threats.

 

Don’t look at me so strong Mr.

You yourself ruined my nest,

and forced me to take refuge here.

Don’t apart me to drops,

in this homeless waterfall.

I expect you for a short time,

(Which I hope to be short,)

under the pressure,

of so huge bitter events and dreams,

grant me asylum,

and don’t multiply me to beetles,

in so much papers and frowns.

I come from the same factory,

that you yourself,

have fabricated,

to disturb the balance of freedom.

 

My desires and dreams,

are left in the last,

and really the lost glance of a blossom,

expecting a comfortable night,

in my life.

 

Don’t regard me so humble,

I have fled from a land,

or not, Just a piece of this earth,

that it’s sun,

walks with stick,

and it’s Police,

eats star every morning.

 

I come from a home,

that it’s moon,

has been sieved,

in condensed alcohol,

and even every night,

it’s people dance continuously,

on a rope,

with a song that,

they don’t know about its hidden melody.

 

Don’t answer me so ugly.

And don’t repeat my nickname,

so loud that,

the sun finds out that,

In this horrible office,

You eat opera every morning,

Instead of your breakfast.

 

Excuse me!

I don’t remember the number of my identification card.

I am not sure,

perhaps somewhere,

among a bunch of threats,

I have lost it.

But I do have an identification card.

Just the day before yesterday,

I have buried it in a garden,

that I don’t remember,

in which part of the world

and at which border

this garden makes thick shadows.

 

Good morning Sir!

I expect you to accept my appeal,

and allow me to sprout illegal,

in a trunk of a tree,

so that I can make a fire,

in that tree.

Don’t worry sir,

I have got enough firewood myself.

Look:

So many poems

so deep pains

so much bitter memories,

and an overflow of feelings

which is burst into tears,

aren’t  enough to make a fire?!

 

If the cage has become expensive,

please register me in your list.

Anyhow perhaps one day

by my name

to buy off

and to sell the freedom

make you ladies and gentlemen

richer and still richer

and build the thicker an still thicker walls.