It's always beautiful in May.
And the girls, two by two,
followed loudly in the park.
The excitement reached
its chaotic crescendo
at the sight of the boat-swans.
I don't want to write about this.
I don't want to stare
at the pictures of that lake
on Google-Earth, at the fountains,
lit high, at brightly coloured
I don't want to read the dry
and black and white paper
laying out the lingering fright.
But I was urged to write
about a Persian PTSD.
So, instead of an ode to Love,
I take that crowded boat
and smile just like the oarsman
oblivious to the deep calls.
They insist it's a lake, in this desert,
but you could swim it in a flash,
had you spent time in the North.
The questions, slightly changed,
are distributed again
in another fourteen days.
I check item B, my young heart,
as the doctors say, aroused,
by the post-eminent scars.
Yes. My nightmares do demand,
from the murky green depths,
all that I can ever be worth.
Another eighty five percent.
First bent out of shape, then
broken in a sea of broken jars.
photo by Measam Ahmadzadeh - Park e Shahr Lake