The Vineyard

Three weeks ago, when I was organizing my old notebooks, I came across a collection

of poems that I had written twenty-five years ago in Iran. At that time, girls had not yet appeared on the streets, and there was no news of the “Woman -Life -freedom” revolution.

I've always wondered why my writings in America tend to be romantic poetry, while what I wrote in Iran was much different - filled with pain and bitterness. It's as if there was no room for love or expressions of love in There. Today, I am sharing one. of these poems here.

The Vineyard

The Vineyard of my homeland

Smells of wine

Smells of wine the vineyard of my homeland

Maybe they have buried..

A lover there.

The town girls

have seen her severed hands..

fingers wrapped around the blue silk of a

handkerchief that spins and dances in the air..

and have heard the jingle of her anklets.

the glitter of the ring on her finger

lights up the vineyard.

No

I

will not look

Her skirt’s pleats are bloody.

the vineyard of my homeland

smells of wine.